


No Sacrifice

by PericulaLudus



Series: Now I Lay Thee Down to Sleep [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Battle of Azanulbizar, Battle of Five Armies, Battlefield Mercy, Canon-Compliant Battle of Five Armies, Canonical Character Death, Dark Dwalin, Death penalty, Deathfic, Dáin Ironfoot Appreciation Society, Dís Feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Injury Recovery, Killing, Line of Succession, Mercy Killing, My First Fanfic, Nightmares, One of My Favorites, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Dwalin, Self-Harm, Survivor Guilt, This is really dark, What Have I Done, Whump, and quite possibly one of my best, canon BOFA, this is dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-02-19 23:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 75,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2407106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dís, daughter of Thráin, learns of her sons' deaths in the Battle of the Five Armies. <br/>Her parents, her brothers, her husband, her sons. All of them are dead now. Dís is alone. Her old friend Dwalin lends her some comfort immediately after she hears the news, but he cannot shelter her from the pressing matters that need to be taken care of. Dís is the last remaining descendent of the direct line of Durin, but her cousin Dáin Ironfoot currently rules in Erebor. Decisions need to be made and quickly, to ensure the survival and prosperity of the Longbeards. <br/>Dís is left with little time to grieve as her cousins council her to not concern herself with politics. Dwalin supports her, but the battle has left him deeply scarred and soon Dís starts to question his loyalty. All alone she tries to do what is best for her people. <br/>The deaths of Fíli and Kíli have not been in vain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Thorin is dead."

It was a statement, not a question. She said it without preamble, not even welcoming the dwarves in front of her. She did not need the messenger's confirmation. She knew. Had known ever since her brother left the Ered Luin to go on that fateful quest. That doomed bid to reclaim a lost home, a mountain, a hoard of gold. They had said their farewells long before this wintry afternoon.

The look in Balin's eyes as they met hers confirmed her fears before he could nod or say a word. Behind him, Dwalin bowed his head. Dís closed her eyes. Just a moment, a moment of peace as she took in the news of her eldest brother's death. Muffled, as if a sturdy door separated them, she heard Balin report to her.

"…he died a valiant death in battle, Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain." He concluded.

Dís took a deep breath before answering:

"He achieved his dream. He served Durin's folk well in the end."

Balin nodded his assent, but she knew that her words were hollow. Her voice sounded flat and dull in her own ears. Her head seemed to be filled with a viscous matter that sloshed around slowly between her ears.

There would be a time for grief later. It was not here, not out in the open with half the town watching. A town that she had governed in her brother's absence. A town that would continue to look towards her for guidance. Particularly now. Now that they had received confirmation of their leader's death. She could hear the whispers behind her. Could feel the eyes upon her and the dwarves who had been sent to carry the news from Erebor to her. This was not a place for emotions. This was not a place for displaying weakness, no matter how desperate the news. She might not look the part in her work clothes and heavy woollen cape, but she was royalty. And she had learned what that meant through many decades filled with bad news.

Even those who lived and worked inside the mountain seemed to have noticed the arrival of the delegation by now, as more and more people filled the small square where Dís had rushed to meet the delegation from Erebor. She took in the small group of dwarves before her. They looked weary and defeated, wearing travel-stained cloaks and standing next to mud-speckled ponies. None would meet her eye. She would have to see to it that they were made comfortable. Details of her brother's demise and the fate of her sons' newly reclaimed kingdom could follow later, preferably conveyed by her cousins in the comfort of her own home. Looking to her left, she gestured to one of the dwarrowdams who had aided her greatly in the running of the town ever since Thorin's departure.

"Runa, could you…"

"Lady Dís," Balin interrupted.

She looked up sharply at the formal title to see her older cousin fiddle with the ends of his luxuriant white beard.

"Lady Dís," he repeated, voice strained. Or did she imagine that? The liquid swirling in her skull seemed to increase its velocity. She felt nauseous.

"There were great losses in the battle."

She had stopped breathing. Her heart pounded loudly. Her pulse seemed to reverberate through her entire body. She willed him to go on and at the same time found herself hoping that the silence would never end. Time was strangely distorted. An age had passed and yet it was too soon, too much, too quickly, when Balin took in a deep breath and continued:

"Your sons died defending their king."

His voice seemed to echo in a great cavern. She looked at him. He seemed to shrink. Shorter and older than she had ever seen him before. His eyes wide, looking up at her, distraught. The square had fallen eerily silent. Dís just stared at the old dwarf in front of her. He flinched. He seemed to wait for her to say something, to react somehow. She couldn't. She didn't know how. There was nothing to be said or done. Her sons. Her young, bright, charming sons. Dead. She did not seem to be part of her own body. She watched the scene from the outside. She did not feel. There was nothing to feel. Dís was just a hollow shell. Standing in the gathering dusk, surrounded by her people and yet leagues away from anyone. Alone, utterly alone.

Dís did not hope. She had seen too much, had lost too many to still give in to hope, to still believe that there was justice in this world. There was no mistake. This was reality. Nobody came back from the dead. Her sons were dead. Her lively boys had gone to the stone.

She was vaguely aware of Dwalin's presence at her side. It felt familiar to have him next to her. At her left and just a half step behind. Guarding her. Shielding her. From what? There was nothing left in the world that could hurt her. There was nothing left in this world. Her family was spent. Her mother, her grandfather, her father, her brothers, her sons. Her sons. Dead. She was the only one left. The only one who was not yet stone.

A young dwarf stepped forward from the group of travellers.

"Lady Dís, may I express my deepest condolences and my regret at the passing of your sons. Such noble lords and skilled fighters! Now they are sleeping in Erebor, once again in the ancient halls…"

They had not passed. Nobody simply passed. Dwarves died. They died and were given back to the stone whence they came. They were not sleeping. She knew death and it was no sleep. It did not come gently. The euphemisms this child used were doing her sons no favour. She looked at the speaker icily. He was still prattling on about armies and battles, valour and honour like those things mattered. Like anything mattered. Anything but her sons. Her dead sons.

"The valiant young princes, such shining examples of…"

"Fíli and Kíli. Their names are Fíli and Kíli."

A collective intake of breath could be heard when she spoke for the first time.

"Yes, yes, anyways," the barely-bearded youth continued, clearly flummoxed by the interruption, "My father and I would like to express our gratitude and honour your great sacrifice…"

"Enough!"

The young dwarf in front of her cringed at her sharp word. He was shorter and broader than both of her sons with none of their muscle evident under his fine garments and none of their expressive features in his doughy face. But he had dark hair and Durin-blue eyes like her brother whose name he bore.

"It was no sacrifice, Thorin, son of Dáin." Dís spat his father's name like an insult. "I did not give them willingly."[1]

She was shaking. She was unable to continue, could not stand this any longer. The world had shrunk to encompass just her and her sons. She was vaguely aware of all the people around her, but she had no strength to face them, talk to them, reassure them, could hardly even see them. She had to get out, had to get away, be alone. Blindly, Dís started walking, mechanically with a measured stride. Don't run. Don't look. Just go home. She did not notice Dwalin holding back young Thorin and growling at him. She was not really aware that he stayed at her side on her way home through the streets of the small town. There were people around her, but they did not matter. She just had to get home.

She opened the door to her house, walked through the kitchen, always too small for a family with three always-hungry males. She stood in the lounge and suddenly realised that she had nowhere to go from here. She was not sure where she had been heading, but it did not feel like she had reached her destination.

There was only cold ash in the fireplace and everything was neat and tidy. The usually cosy room with its stone walls and dark timbers felt empty. There was nobody home. There would never be anybody home again. This was not a home anymore, just a house.

Slowly, Dís walked over to the fireplace. Rekindle the fire. Do something useful. But why? She grasped the stone mantel, willing herself to calm down, to breathe deeply. It was no use. There was a persistent buzzing in her ears, a swirling in her head. Her vision was oddly narrowed and she found herself unable to see anything but what was right in front of her.

A small wooden dog. Kíli had given it to her decades ago. It wasn't a very good piece of work, the legs slightly uneven, the face lopsided. He had gotten much better with his woodwork over the years. Nevertheless, this little dog still had pride of place on the mantelpiece. It had always seemed friendly. Now the dog was leering at her. A reminder of simpler times. A reminder of a time when Kíli had still been alive.

With a scream, she swiped everything off the mantelpiece. The various odds and ends clattered to the ground. Something shattered. Dís did not care. She hit the wall with her hand and screamed again. It did nothing to relieve the pressure inside her. The swirling in her head intensified. She had to hold herself upright with both hands. There was so much in her head. And yet there was only darkness, only a dense fog. She would like to pass out, would like to just not feel anymore. She was granted no such mercy.

It was all in her mind, like waves that kept crashing over her. Everything seemed to move faster and faster, and yet she was still standing in her own house, clutching the mantelpiece. Trying to anchor herself, to be somewhere, to be someone. There was overwhelming pain, but it was all inside her, without any physical manifestation.

She smacked her forehead against the rough stone wall. It felt good. A sharp pain that reverberated through her skull. It was a relief. She sobbed.

She hit her head against the wall again. And again. Harder. Pain. Pain was good. Pain meant that she could still feel. A strangled noise escaped her throat.

The next time, her forehead didn't hit the wall. It hit flesh. She growled in annoyance. She tried again, harder. The same result. Then she just rested her head against the hand that was cushioning it against the wall.

She was sobbing freely now. Loud, angry, ugly sobs. She felt another large, calloused hand on her back, rubbing slow circles on her shoulder blade. The first hand was still resting on her temple, thumb caressing her hair

Dís half-sobbed, half-screamed, occasionally trying to hit her head against the wall again. To feel the pain, the actual, physical pain.

Without noticing how it happened, she found herself turned to face the dining table. The hand disappeared from her forehead and strong arms embraced her tightly as her face was pressed into rough fabric.

Dwalin. The smell of Dwalin. The feeling of not being alone. Of being somewhere, with someone. The tears were flowing freely now as she buried her face deeper into her cousin's tunic. Deeper into that familiar smell.

They stood like this for a long time. Dwalin silent, though his breathing was rugged and uneven. Dís crying. She should probably stop, but she could not find it in herself to care.

Dwalin was solid, he was warm, he was real. Dís did not think she would ever want to move again. Just wait out the rest of her days in his hard embrace.

There was nobody else who would ever embrace her again. At this thought, a painful cry fought its way from Dís' lungs to her throat. She felt her knees buckle and expected to hit the ground, but Dwalin simply held her, pressed against him, his arms supporting her back.

Time did not seem to pass as usual, but eventually Dís found her tears slowing. She was gasping for breath and felt weaker than she ever had before, still feebly hanging in Dwalin's arms.

Dwalin picked her up like a small child; her head still nestled against his shoulder, she let herself retreat into deep reverie as she was carried to the sofa. She was gently set down, a pillow stuffed beneath her head. Her feet were gently lifted and her sturdy boots removed. She let herself be treated like an infant. There was no fight in her. Appearances did not matter and she did not have the strength to perform even the most menial of tasks. Her legs were finally set down and she found herself being covered by a warm patchwork quilt. Rich, colourful fabrics were all around her.

"I'll be right back," Dwalin whispered, pressing the lightest of kisses on her battered forehead. His voice sounded far away and she did not feel the touch as acutely as if it was her own head he had kissed. A different person lay on her sofa.

Dís was floating. Or sinking maybe. There was no way to be sure. There was something soft around her. She felt cold, and oddly, not quite aware of her body. Maybe she could die. Just sink into the softness. Just give in to the darkness.

There were sounds in the background. Clattering, hissing like a flame being lit. A drawer in the kitchen. The door of a cupboard. She did not care. It did not matter. Dís was floating.

She became aware of steps next to her. A heavy weight was eased on the ground by her head and then a clink like pottery being set down.

She felt a large finger smear something cool across her brow. Arnica.

She knew the smell. She used arnica a lot. It came with being the mother of strong-willed, adventurous boys. First, they used to toddle into furniture. Then the climbing phase began. Actually, that never really stopped. There was always a bruise to heal. As they got bigger, so did their fights. There were constant disagreements with some neighbour's lad. They each learned a trade eventually and in the learning lay accidents and more bruises and scrapes. Once they started weapons training, they always sported an assortment of small injuries. Fíli had taken to swords and axes with zeal and showed a natural talent, but constantly pushed himself to work harder, to become better, often to the point of exhaustion. His younger brother had much more difficulty, skinny and small for his age he was barely able to wield even the tiniest sword Thorin had fashioned for him. Kíli too found his fighting form eventually and together the brothers were formidable warriors indeed. They still came home moaning, beaten and bloodied more often than she cared to remember. But there was little a dollop of arnica could not make better. Or a mother's touch. Mostly a mother's touch really. She was always able to help her boys. Until now. Until they went off and got killed.

Dís shuddered. She felt her muscles tense and shivered uncontrollably.

"There, there," Dwalin murmured, stroking his hand over Dís' hair that was escaping her usually meticulous braids.

He was not good with words. He was not the bright brother. And yet he sensed that there was something he could give Dís in these terrible first hours. Some form of quiet companionship maybe, something that did not require the right words. He suspected that there were no right words anyways. There would be time later, time for his brother, for Dáin's son, for all the others that would doubtlessly want to intrude, to talk to Dís. For now she should just be a grieving sister and mother. He could give her little else, but he could give her that opportunity. She was the last one left for him to protect. He had failed all of his other charges. His kings, his princes. And the one he had guarded from what he feared most… Dwalin shuddered. That was the worst of his failures.

Dwalin tried to get Dís to drink some tea. That was something you did with distressed people. Chamomile tea with lots of honey. That was supposed to be calming. And Dís liked sweet things. She did not seem to taste the tea at all. Dwalin suspected that she did not really notice that she was drinking it. She was awake, but her expression was vacant.

He waited. He was not sure what he was waiting for. But he was good at waiting. He had guarded many people, had kept many long watches. Sitting motionless, but always alert and ready to move at the slightest noise. After all these decades, it came naturally. Balin said that was because there was not much in his brain that could distract him. That was not true. There were many thoughts. But they were usually dark and he did not speak about them often, not even to his brother. It was easier to keep those things hidden, to only think about them when he was waiting for something to happen. These past weeks had seen him take many watches. The thoughts kept him awake. The thoughts were darker than ever, darker than the ones he had had after Azanulbizar, darker even than the ones that accompanied the terrible warfare in the tunnels and caves that lead up to that final battle in front of the gates of Moria.

Dís was not moving. She was not asleep; her eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling. Maybe it was good to give her some time to escape into her reverie. Maybe it was wrong to let her do so. Dwalin was unsure about the correct course of action. Usually, he had Balin at his side to make such decisions. Balin knew what to do in any situation. He was the brains, Dwalin was just the muscle. And his muscles did him no good here. But Balin was not here in the house now. Dwalin had insisted that he wanted to be left alone with Dís. They had talked about this at length. In the end, Balin had conceded that he had never been as close to their cousin as Dwalin was and that it might just be a good plan to let him handle this delicate matter. Or maybe Balin had simply agreed because he did not want to bear the brunt of Dís wrath himself. It was unlike Balin to give in to his younger brother. Whatever the reason, Dwalin was on his own now. Had wanted to be on his own with Dís because somehow he had thought that he could make her suffering more bearable. He was not so sure now.

Nothing was gained by dwelling on that though. The small cottage was now enveloped in darkness and becoming uncomfortably cold. With a sigh, Dwalin got up from the floor and moved to build up a fire in the hearth.

In the dim light, he assessed the situation in the small lounge. It was a mere crofter's cottage, not much of a royal residence, but Thorin had insisted on leading a life that was no more different from his people's than it absolutely had to be. Dís boots were still sitting where he had put them upon removing them from her feet. With a sad smile, Dwalin picked them up and put them next to his own on the rug in the kitchen. This was so unlike Dís. She never walked into the house with her boots on and constantly chastised her boys for doing so.

As he turned to light the oil lamp on the table, Dwalin's foot brushed one of the items Dís had scattered around the room in he earlier fit of rage. He bent to pick it up and found that it was the wooden dog Kíli had carved so many years ago. It had not survived the fall unscathed. The back was cracked, the little figurine split in two. Neither head nor tail, nor any of the delicate legs had taken any damage. How strange. How fitting. He closed his hand around the two parts of the small animal, clenching his fist as if he was willing the pieces to mend.

[1]Following the loss of her five sons in World War 1, Amy Beechey of Lincoln, England was presented to King George V and honoured by the King and Queen for her immense sacrifice - but despite her great pride in her sons, she was reluctant to accept such terminology. "It was no sacrifice, Ma'am," she told Queen Mary. "I did not give them willingly."


	2. Chapter 2

The day Fíli made her a mother, a healthy babe with a tuft of blond hair and aquamarine eyes. A laughing Jóli bouncing is son on his knees, holding out his hands for him to take his first wobbly steps. The serious look in little Fíli’s eyes the day he became a big brother. The tiny infant that had been Kíli, on the verge of life and death for so long, but always alert, always squirming. Her younger son’s impatience when he was not able to keep up with his older brother. Finding them curled up together in the corner of the bed. Thorin laughing despite himself as he was tackled by the two small dwarflings on one of his rare visits. Jóli handing them their very first tiny wooden swords and the eager looks in their eyes as he explained to them the responsibility that came with such weapons. Fíli half-carrying his brother home after yet another ill-fated exploration of the woods, smiling sheepishly as she chided them, but Kíli already grinning again by the time she was tending to his injuries. Kíli running off from their schooling, not out of spite, but simply because he enjoyed running, hated being confined. Moving in with Thorin, a widow with two small sons. Helping them adapt to their stern uncle who was trying to replace their jovial father. Revealing to them that they were princes, that their uncle had chosen them as his heirs. Kíli now always taking the blame for their mischief, always bearing his punishments with a cheeky grin. The four of them growing together, as a family and as leaders of their people. Milestones reached, goals achieved, challenges overcome, a series of events playing out in her mind. 

Then she was saying her farewells again, sending each one of them off on this quest with just a few words. “Go with honour and without regrets,” she had told her brother. She had opposed this journey to Erebor vehemently, but now that he was leaving, she wanted him to know that she supported him to whatever end and that she was proud of him even though he had gone against her wishes. 

“Remember that you are the mithril of my heart, Fíli. Use your mind and your strength to stand up for what is right and please make sure your brother is safe.”

“Remember that you are the mithril of my heart, Kíli. Use your energy and your spirit to inspire those around you and please keep supporting your brother.”

The last memory Dís had of her children were their solemn faces that could not quite conceal the sparkle of excitement in their eyes. Their arms round her neck and then the view of them slowly riding away, disappearing into the East. 

She needed to know the rest of the story. With an effort, she sat up. She was surprised to not find Dwalin sitting on the floor anymore. He was standing by the table. 

“Dwalin, come. Sit.”

Her voice sounded rough. His head snapped around. It was rare that anybody could surprise him, but it looked like he had hardly been aware of her presence at all. 

“Tell me… tell me how they…” She could not finish that sentence, but he understood.

“Aye,” Dwalin sighed, “I will.” He lit the lamp on the table, his motions slow and deliberate. The small room was bathed in a warm, orange light. Dwalin squared his shoulders and awkwardly stalked towards her, sitting down heavily on the other end of the sofa. 

“There was a great battle,” he began, all too predictably.

“The dragon – it was still there,” Dís breathed.

“No. Smaug is dead. That is, yes, he was still there. But he was not there when… Ach!”

“Did the dragon… was it… Are they burned dwarves??”

“No! No, they are not. Not burned. No… not that… They were properly buried. We gave them back to the stone in Erebor. Smaug was not... He was still in the mountain when we got there. We made it into the mountain and he was there, just sitting on his treasure.”

“My grandfather’s treasure… the gold of our people… But how could you reclaim Erebor with so few with the dragon still inside?”

“He realised who we were. He suspected that we were in league with the men of Esgaroth. He was so angry… He flew towards the Long Lake and laid ruin to the town. It burned. Just like Dale. It was burned to tinder. All the people, the families there…”

“No! Not that! How could you, Dwalin? How could Thorin? Has our own people’s suffering taught him nothing? Is there no end to his folly! Do you warriors have to keep heaping sorrow upon innocents? Tell me you killed the beast after that! Tell me you fabled warriors were useful for once! Tell me it was the last of its atrocities!”

“Aye… that it was... But no dwarf laid hand or axe on him. Smaug was slain by Bard of Esgaroth. A descendent of Girion, Lord of Dale. For all the long decades of dreading the dragon, it was all over rather quickly.”

“Oh how can you say that, Dwalin? Do not pretend you are that callous! Think of all the men, think of all their suffering! First Dale and now Esgaroth! Their second loss so soon after the first. But what about your company? Did everybody…?”

“We lived. All were in good health. Except… well, anyways… we stayed in Erebor. Oh Dís, it is wonderful! Badly damaged, but still. It’s… it’s just… well, it’s home.”

“A dearly bought home. What happened? What was this battle about?”

“The gold. Oh Dís, the gold… There was so much of it. Mounds upon mounds. It was beautiful. It was everywhere. It was… it was too much. Thorin. He… he was… it… it got him. The gold.”

Dís gasped audibly at that, hand clutched to her mouth. A sound, half moan, half sob escaped her lips. Dwalin put his hand on her arm, but continued with his report. 

“He was not himself. He was vengeful and bitter. He could only see the treasure. He would not let go of any of it. When the men of Esgaroth approached him asking for compensation… he denied it. He turned dangerous and violent, even against… well… even against our own company. After our journey, after everything… he could only see the treasure. He was… despite his promises and his commitment, despite all he went through, despite everything… in the end he was just like Thrór.”

Dwalin buried his head in his hands. Dís knew how close he and Thorin had been. Closer maybe than she had ever been to her brother. Their relationship had never had to be mended and recovered from the ruins. She knew how much Dwalin had looked up to her brother, more than just a cousin to him, his captain and his king even in the darkest days of their exile. It must have come as a shock to him. She had lost family to the dragon sickness before. It was terrifying. 

“Dwalin, “ she said gently, “There was nothing you could have done. It’s our weakness. It is in our blood.”

“No!” She flinched at his sharp interruption. “It is not in your blood. It is not! The lads, they were fine. Impressed, but solely by the beauty of Erebor, not by the gold. We all looked through the treasure chambers. All of us were enthralled, Durin or no. But the lads… They just picked up two golden harps and sat there, playing music. They had nary an eye for all the riches. They would rather enjoy playing together than all the gold in Erebor.”

That little anecdote made her smile sadly. At least her sons had been themselves. It was a strange relief. At the same time the knowledge that there was a choice, that it was not just down to fate, made her despair for her brother. 

“In the end, we had men and elves on our doorstep, all demanding gold. Thorin would never give it to them. He called upon Dáin instead. Dáin brought half a thousand of his warriors.”

“Not to aid his kin, I reckon… The gold, the gold was drawing him in too. And he was letting it rule him.”

“He wasn’t the only one… Just before the three armies commenced battle, we received word that there was another one about to arrive. They had come crawling out the Misty Mountains. They even brought wargs. They wanted to destroy, destroy every one of us that they had not killed already.”

Even in the dim light, Dwalin must have registered the shock on her face at his grim words. He leaned in towards her. Their eyes met. She could see anger in his, anger at all these developments that threatened to destroy –nay, had destroyed– all that he held dear, but even more so, despair. He had always been her rock. Stoic, unbending, reliable in all circumstances. Dwalin was just there through everything she, her family and her people had endured over the years. Steadfast. Dwalin did not despair. But he had never been the same after the War with the Orcs. He carried many scars from the underground warfare in the caverns of the Misty Mountains, scars that impressed and scared in equal measure, but she had long suspected that his real wounds remained unseen. A goblin army must have been his worst nightmare come true.  
“What happened?” Dís promted when Dwalin remained silent. He closed his eyes for the duration of a breath and then, having steadied himself visibly, continued in his report, every bit the old warrior.

“The commanders, Dáin, Bard and even Thranduil, they agreed that we had a common enemy now. Despite their demands, despite everything the elves have done, that… that vermin is worse. We had sealed off the gate. The three armies assembled on top of the craigs on either side of the valley. Dwarves and men on one, elves on the other, with just a light rear-guard at the mouth. It worked. They drew them in. At first it worked. The… the beasts took heavy losses, surrounded by all of the free folk. Only in the second wave did they truly attack. It was carnage. Dwarves, men and elves there were, but even all of them together were outnumbered five to one. We could not stand back. They were fighting and dying because of us. We were few inside the Mountain, but we threw down the wall and killed all that had advanced that far.”

He paused, eyes closed once more. Dís found herself both anticipating and dreading the next part of the tale. The part that was sure to include her sons’ deaths. 

“Thorin cut through the goblin ranks like a diamond through copper. The lads were in his wake.”

Her boys had been with their uncle. They had all been together. Her family. Sister-sons indeed.

“Bolg, son of Azog, was the leader of those demons. Thousands of them. He was surrounded by the tallest and foulest of them all. Had them guard his precious skin. Thorin and the lads, they went straight for them.”

Dís’ gasp interrupted him. Tears were streaming down her face again. In the eye of the storm, the centre of the battle. Where else would she expect her sons to be? She herself had told them so. Stand up for what is right. Keep supporting your brother. Why oh why? She should have told them to hide, should have taught them to run. They could have run! In fact, running was among Kíli’s greatest joys. He never stopped. Running, running, always running. But always running towards trouble, not away from it. She tore at her beard until Dwalin’s hands captured hers. He continued. Soldiered on to that predictable but unbearable end.

“It was chaos. Melee. Each dwarf, man, elf fighting many at once. It was Azanulbizar all over again. I did not see when Thorin was cut down. I was not there. I failed him. He had many wounds. When I finally saw him on the ground, Fíli and Kíli were standing over him, back to back, defending his body. Loyal. Loyal to the end. To the end and beyond.”

She was crying in earnest once more and Dwalin pulled her against his body. The smell and feel of Dwalin still spoke of safety even when every word he uttered only shattered her world further.

“I tried to get to them, Dís, I tried. Not hard enough. Not good enough to get through that battle. Once again not good enough. It wasn’t us in the end. The eagles turned the tide. Giant eagles as our allies, a hundred or so descending upon our enemies. It really was everyone united against the darkness. The havoc they wreaked gave us hope and endurance after strength had failed us… I got closer then. The lads were still standing. They were still fighting. Grim and determined. They moved as one. Dís, it would have been beautiful had our situation not been that dire. Oh Dís…”

He grabbed her tighter. She could not determine whether that was due to her renewed sobbing at his praise for her sons, or due to the silent tears she could feel falling on her head. Dwalin never cried. Fíli and Kíli had always been emotional. Thorin had shed tears in anger. Balin’s eyes got wet when he recalled the injustices done to their people. Even the oldest, most stoic of warriors had been overcome with grief when the survivors of Azanulbizar returned. Dís recalled Dwalin’s eyes at that moment. They had met hers over the heads of the assembled crowd, weary and broken, but dry and still full of the promise to protect her despite all that had happened. Dwalin never cried. Not until now. 

“I did not realise, but Thorin was still alive. He was bleeding from so many wounds I had mistaken him for dead. But our last ally arrived at the scene. Beorn, a great bear we had met on our journey. He went straight for Thorin, breaking those great monsters like pieces of pig iron. Beorn carried him to safety.”

Her brother had been carried to safety. Her brother who had instigated all of this! Her brother, but not her sons. Oh how she regretted his death! How she wished he had remained alive long enough to suffer for his deeds! Her sons’ deaths were his fault! Oh how she would have made him suffer.

“Kíli was distracted for just a moment. He could not tear his eyes from Thorin. It was just a moment… He could not see it coming…”

Dís felt the familiar sensation of being apart from her body again. This was not happening to her. Some other mother was sitting on her sofa, hearing of her baby’s death. She felt empathy for her, but could not quite imagine her pain. Nobody could bear that level of pain. Nobody should have to. Children should not die before their parents. And still there was Dwalin, never faltering in his account of the battle, now almost eager to get on with it.

“Fíli could though. He could see it. The biggest and foulest of Bolg’s guard threw his spear right at Kíli. There was nothing he could have done. Kíli would not have heard him. So Fíli pushed him, pushed him out of the way and took the spear in his own shoulder.”

Dís heard a scream and felt a stinging at her chin as Dwalin once more grabbed hold of her hands. At least Fíli had died protecting his brother. At least that small mercy had been granted to him. 

“Fíli fell to his knees, but was back up in an instant, checking to see if Kíli was alright. Only he wasn’t. He wasn’t… That guard had a morning star in his other hand. As his throw went astray, he attacked with that instead. Kíli never had a chance. Never. He was crushed before he realised what was happening. I finally made it to where they were. I had lost all my weapons. I picked up an axe. I killed that monster. I killed him, Dís, I did that! But I was too late again. Bolg had turned his attention to the remaining Durin. His sword was in Fíli’s neck as I was freeing my axe from his guard’s body. I was too late! I wanted him to kill me then… I did not want to live... But Beorn, Beorn decided that for me. He killed Bolg. I did not even do that. I did nothing! Just knelt next to Fíli. I held him. I did that. I tried, Dís, I tried. But there was so much blood... So much blood! I could do nothing. I was there, but there was nothing I could do. It would not stop. I was too late. He was dead after three more heartbeats.”

Screaming, howling. She was punching Dwalin with all her might. It could not be! Never. Not her sons. Not like that. Crushed and cut. Not her sons. Not such despair! No comfort at all. No solace in anything. Her sons, alone, alone in the dark. Why? Why like that?  
“It was quick, Dís. At least it was that. Fíli… Fíli died quickly…”

He needed her to know. He needed her to find some comfort. Deaths in battle were never as pretty as the songs made them out to be. They were ugly, unbelievably ugly, all of them, and he had witnessed many. But these deaths… These deaths… Dwalin had seen them in his mind constantly since that fateful day. It had been torture. Well-deserved torture. But recounting them out loud was even worse. He needed her to know the whole story. He needed to go on. But for the moment, all he could do was hold her and accept the punches she threw with a strength that would have been surprising had he not known of her continuous work in the forge. He would bear it. He would bear anything. Anything she could do to him was too small a punishment for what he had failed to do. And certainly too small a punishment for what he had done.

“Kíli…,” Dís finally croaked.

With a sigh, Dwalin fulfilled her unspoken request.

“The morning star… it… it had shattered his spine... He was awake when I got to him, but he could not feel, could not move. He was… broken…”

The pieces of the little wooden dog seemed to burn a hole into his pocket at these words. Dís stared at him with such dread in her eyes that he did not dare to continue. The worst, the worst of everything. Fíli unable to protect his brother. Fíli dead, his last sight Kíli being killed in front of his eyes, his last thoughts undoubtedly painful and full of guilt. Kíli, without his brother, without any of the agility and the energy that defined him, so afraid, so alone. Lost, all of them. Lost in the dark. The all-encompassing evil. All of them failures in what they had set out to do. No protection. No youthful energy. Nothing. All lost. Failures. But his failure worst of all. Dwalin steeled himself to continue his tale when Dís spoke again. 

“Did I kill them? Did they die for my home, for the glory of reclaiming it, or even just for the joy it would give me to see it again? Did I kill them with my tales of Erebor?”


	3. Chapter 3

“Was the boy right? Did I sacrifice them? Did I sacrifice them on the altar of my memories? Dwalin! Did I kill my sons?”

Dís was agitated now. She had sat up and was clutching the collar of Dwalin´s tunic. She was shouting, her voice nearly breaking. Dwalin just stared at her, stared into her glazed eyes. Tears were now streaming down his face, even as his cousin’s seemed to have dried up for the moment. He wanted to sob, to break down, but he knew that was not an option. It never had been and certainly was not an option now.

“No, Dís, no. You did not kill them… I did. I failed them. I was not fast enough to save Fíli. And Kíli… Oh Dís, I killed Kíli! I killed him! Forgive me. I failed. I killed your sons! Forgive me, Dís, forgive me…”

The words had drained him. He stared at her helplessly. There was no way back now. He had confessed his deeds. It took her a while to process the information. Then the anger came. 

“Don’t you dare, Dwalin! Don’t you dare put your grief above mine! Don’t you dare make this about you! They were nothing to you! You are not their father! They are not even your sister-sons! You had nothing to do with them and now you make this about your troubles. For once, this is not about you. You don’t matter in this, Dwalin! These are my sons we are talking about. My sons I want to mourn. Do I not deserve this time? Is this not a dam’s role? To mourn where you warriors fail? Will you take this from me as well? Make this about yourself? No, Dwalin! Don’t you dare! They did not need a great warrior to take care of them. They were more than capable of defending themselves. Your inadequacy is irrelevant. Your petty guilt has no place here. Do not try to force your forgiveness from me! This is my time to grieve!”

Dwalin was stunned. His back rigid, he just sat and stared. 

Dís had jumped up and was standing in front of him, every bit the formidable warrior her brother had been. Thorin and Dís, they were so alike in their anger. He had expected anger. But he had not expected this. Her words cut deep. The lads had mattered to him. This was about him. About what he had done. He had killed many over the years, but he liked to believe that he rarely killed without need. He did not mind the opinion of others, as long as he still knew that he was no monster. Yet this time… had he casually disposed of those dearest to him? Dís’ lack of understanding was like a knife in his guts, twisted every which way with each of her words. He kept repeating her name, softly, pleadingly, but unable to stop the onslaught of her fury.

Her anger was usually reserved for Thorin. Their opinions had differed so widely. Her role in the family and their community. His overeager ambitions for their people. His strict principles. Fíli and Kíli’s upbringing. Their role as princes of their folk. There were many topics that lead to their frequents arguments. 

Dwalin took a secret pride in the fact that Dís would usually come to him after one of their rows. After Thorin had stormed off, she would visit Dwalin in the forge and ask for any mindless, heavy work. They rarely talked. Thorin was the talker. Once he had cooled down enough, he would come to the forge as well, sometimes narrowly avoiding Dís. He would talk, but he expected no answers. Not from Dwalin. Dwalin was good for a discussion of battles or questions of security. Thorin did not expect him to have an opinion on anything else. Did not expect him to ponder any deeper issues. 

He had become lost in his thoughts. An irate Dís was still shouting and gesticulating erratically. Words, angry words, ugly words. He did not need to listen to grasp their meaning. She did not understand. How could she? How could anyone? Maybe she shouldn’t. Maybe nobody should ever know. Maybe this was one of the things you took to your own grave. A grave that you hoped would find you quickly.

He was just as broken as Dís was. Why had he thought that he could comfort her? Why had he been so convinced that this was a good idea? That he might be able to lend her strength when he himself had none? Balin should be here. Balin would have the right words, would know what to do. But Balin was not in his situation. And in his situation, was there anything that could be right? Word or action, anything that was not flawed?

He did not know what to say. As usual. He just knew how to kill. Now he even doubted that he knew when to kill. But he had to do something, to say something. He had one duty left in this life and it was to Dís. He had failed everyone else. He would not fail her as well. He could not afford to be buried in his own sorrow, could not do that to her.

Dís was wearing herself out, her shouts becoming increasingly incomprehensible. Say something. Do something. Anything. Protect her. Protect her from herself.

“Umhûdizu tadaizd ku’ adrûthîzd, Mahal,” he started the traditional Words of Mourning, “murukhîzd udu charach bakhuzizu ra udnîn izd ana ghiluz nur.” 

Somehow the steady rhythm of the adrûthigulûb was calming and he repeated the simple line over and over again. First softly, then louder until Dís took notice.

“Bless those who mourn, creator, shield them from the pain with your hammer and guide them to a new day.”

He never thought much about his beliefs. They had little place in a life that was defined by necessity and labour. He put his hopes in the strength of his arms and the sharpness of his weapons. Anything else was not practical for the life he led. But there was a power in traditions. He had spoken the adrûthigulûb many times before, every time a family member, a friend, a comrade fell, but this time he meant the words like he had never meant them before. With every repetition he spoke with greater ardour. Shield them from the pain. Shield her from the pain. Help me shield her. 

They were both on their feet now, facing each other, reciting their plea to Mahal. 

“… guide them to a new day,” they finished one last time. More despair than hope in their voices, but steady and coherent once more. His hands on her shoulders, her hands on his forearms, they steadied each other. Injured warriors after a fearsome battle. 

“I need to know. I need you to tell me why they died,” said Dís.

Dwalin nodded. Anything for her. Her outburst seemed to have calmed his cousin. She turned and went into the kitchen. He heard her handle the kettle and pour water. With a last deep breath, he went to stoke the fire and add more coals. 

They sat down at the table this time. Less emotional surroundings. They faced each other over a cup of tea. A captain reporting to his queen. Dís was his queen. Not in title, but he still felt he owed her allegiance in a way that he would never owe it to Dáin. 

There was a deep sadness in her eyes, but she was composed as she asked:

“Why did my sons go to their deaths? Was it the gold after all?”

“The gold gave them no joy… they were still the same when we were in Erebor, still themselves. More so than all the others.”, Dwalin answered slowly, deliberately, “They still found joy in their jokes, in exploring, in music. It was not the gold. They were there for the adventure. They were there for Thorin.”

“I thought I had raised them better than that! Did I not raise them to think independently? Did they just follow him like mindless cattle?”

“No… They were… loyal to Thorin”, he allowed, “but they were not following blindly… they questioned him… especially Fíli. He understood. Our journey had shown him that his uncle was not infallible… He was every bit the prince… He was never like that before… He really thought for himself. They made their own decision to join the fray. They would not have done anything they didn’t want to. Not with the way they had grown. They went into battle together. They went because they wanted to.”

“But why did they seek out death? What was in it for them? What could have been more precious than their own lives?”

This was… difficult. He had repeated that question to himself too many times. He sent a silent plea to Mahal that Dís would accept the answer he had found for himself.

“It was years ago… the winter decades ago, the Fell Winter, when we went with the rangers… Fíli, he became very attached to their chieftain, Argonui…”

Dís knew this story, but Dwalin needed a moment to gather his thoughts for the part that followed, the part that was relevant. He had thought about the reason for all this death and destruction as well. Just because he had seen it before did not mean that he was immune to it. On the contrary. He had questioned and he had found an answer in what the old dúnadan had once told a young Fíli. 

“We were in the land of the halflings, the Hobbits’ Shire when it became clear that Argonui would not survive the winter. He was old, but Fíli, he was only in his fifties… he took it badly. He questioned why such a great man would die for such a small and insignificant people who were not all that happy we were there in the first place… he could not understand. It seemed futile to him. Fíli asked that question… and I think the answer stayed with him… I heard him repeat it to Kíli before… well, before we went into battle…”

Dís was listening intently now. 

“Argonui told him, and those were the last words he spoke to Fíli… if he spoke any more with his grandson, Arathorn, afterwards, I do not know… ‘We fight not for glory’ he said.. ‘nor riches, nor honours, but for freedom – for that alone which no honest man gives up, except with his life’… he died defending the Hobbits against wolves, orcs and the fury of winter… Fíli and Kíli died defending all the free people of Middle Earth. They died for our freedom.” 

“Freedom…”, Dís repeated, “freedom… the freedom of all the people… Was that why you all fought together? Was it that dire?”

Dwalin nodded. “It was. It is dark out there, Dís. A darkness unlike any I have ever seen… there are armies in the dark, there are spirits stirring in the woods. I was afraid, we all were. Even the wizard was afraid. There is a power that should not be, and I dearly hope we halted its growth. We can no longer face the darkness alone, Dís… Dwarves alone are not enough…”

She was tearing her beard again. It pained him to see the dark strands of hair fall from her hands. He hated seeing her hurt herself. But he knew this was inevitable. He just hoped that the words spoken so long ago would resonate with her in the same way they had with her sons.  
“Not for glory, nor riches, nor honours, but for freedom… I cannot say that I agree… that it would comfort me… that I wouldn’t wish it had been different… But I think I… I can understand. I can understand why freedom might be worth dying for.”

Dís looked at him then, still unfathomably sad, eyes red, the remainder of her beard in tatters, but with steel in her glance.   
“Nothing can make up for the loss of my sons, but I think I understand. I understand why they died.”

They sat in silence, caught up in their thoughts, all of them dark. Acceptance was one thing, but it did not translate into forgiveness. The impact of the death of the two young princes remained as unfathomable as ever. 

A knock on the kitchen door interrupted their reverie. 

Dwalin was on his feet in an instant, dagger drawn. He wasted no time. As the second knock sounded he was already at the door, tearing it open and thrusting his dagger through the gap. 

“Oh, will you stop it, laddie!”

Dwalin opened the door completely to reveal his brother standing in the dark. Balin’s reflexes had not slowed with age, but in jumping back he had extinguished the small lantern he was carrying. 

“You nearly skewered me. That’s no way to treat your elders”, he grumbled. 

Dwalin snarled. Balin knew that it always took him some days to adjust when he got back after a long time on the road.   
“What’s your business here?”

“I wanted to check… see if you are, well… done…”

Dwalin snarled again.

“What do you expect? You think she is over their death in a few hours? They were her only family, Balin. Show some consideration!”

“Yes, yes… certainly. Mahal rest their spirits. But they died honourable deaths. There is consolation in that. They reclaimed our homeland. They achieved everything we set out to do.”

Balin could be exasperating. 

“They are dead. Give her time.”

“They were buried weeks ago.”

“For her, it just happened. At least give her the atkât.”

“The Silence, the atkât, ends with burial, my dear brother. It’s about preparing for the burial in body and in spirit. It’s a time of contemplation when the grief is fresh.”

“I don’t need your lectures, Balin. She had no burial to attend. Her grief is fresh. Give her a day on her own.” He did not win arguments with his brother. But he could not afford to lose this one. For Dís’ sake he had to win just this once. 

“There are urgent matters to address. We still need to discuss the question of succession. Dís is of the direct line of Durin, while Dáin is a descendent of Grór. He is also the younger of the two. Her approval is required.”

Dwalin raised himself to his full height and crossed his arms as he glowered at Balin. 

“A day.”

“Oh, stop it, laddie. You better not try to intimidate me! Do not make me out to be heartless. I’m no elf! But these are important matters of state that you cannot possibly comprehend.”

“A day.”

“I cannot keep young Prince Thorin waiting forever. He is eager to advance these matters, for his father to fully and legitimately claim control of Erebor. It will strengthen our position considerably to have this rather unseemly matter resolved once and for all. She simply needs to renounce all rights to the crown.”

Dwalin flexed his hands. He could tell that he was wearing his brother down. 

“A day.”

“Oh fine, fine, you insufferable pest. Have it your way! She has until tomorrow morning for her atkât. I will arrange for food to be delivered for Dís to break her fast. Come! I need you!”

Dwalin remained standing in the doorframe. He had no intention to go anywhere. Balin impatiently motioned for him to follow. He would not leave Dís alone. Understanding dawned on Balin’s face and he rounded on his brother. 

“You can’t”, he hissed, “You are in no state to stay here with her!”

Dwalin remained unmoving staring out into the night.

“You can’t”, repeated Balin, lowly, but urgently, “You know, you can’t. What if she sees? What if she hears?”

“I won’t sleep tonight.” Why did his brother always take him for a fool?

“Fine, have it your way”, Balin spat, clearly agitated, but trying to keep his voice down so nobody would overhear their argument, “You have one night. But don’t you dare fall asleep, don’t you dare!”

He stalked off and Dwalin watched his figure retreat in the darkness. Like he had any desire to experience that. Much less to have Dís experience it. What he had told her had already broken her heart. There was no need to show her just how dreadful the battle had been. How much it had cost them. No glory, no honours, no riches could make up for that. But freedom they had achieved. At least for a time. At least for some. 

The cold night air was a balm for his lungs and his head. He stood for a while, just breathing and letting the wind cool his face. He heard Dís soft steps behind him and felt her hand on his arm. 

“Thank you”, she said simply. 

They understood each other without words. Silence, atkât, indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

"Come inside, Dwalin. It's cold."

He knew she was right. There was snow on the ground. More flakes were lazily falling from the low clouds.

"Come. I'll make you some tea."

Tea. As if tea solved anything. As if tea absolved him from his guilt. As if tea would revive the lads. Dwalin felt he might spontaneously combust if he had to quietly sit down with yet another cup of tea. Grumbling something about gathering wood for the fire, he stalked off to the small outbuilding.

His sudden entrance startled the chickens and the nanny goat in her pen snorted in annoyance. He mechanically moved towards the wood that was stacked neatly along the far wall. Most of it was split already, but there were a few small logs sitting in the corner.

He roughly yanked the axe out of the chopping block. It was a heavy instrument, suitable for a family of blacksmiths. Dawlin handled it with ease. There were advantages to being the daft mountain of muscle.

He was splitting wood like it had personally insulted him. For a while he imagined that he was splitting the skulls of orcs. The skulls of those terrible goblin guards that had caused all of this. But that could bring him no comfort. He had killed too many already. The killing was the cause of his misery, not the solution. So he just worked with barely a thought. Splitting wood, throwing the pieces away, wielding the axe with practised, precise moves, putting all of his considerable strength into the work.

Dís smiled to herself. Dwalin truly was a member of the line of Durin. There had never been a lack of firewood in her household. In fact, she had often had her boys bring firewood to the older and poorer members of the community. Between that and supplying the hearths in the official halls within the mountain, there had still always been a surplus of chopped wood. Whether it was Thorin adjusting to life with his sister and small nephews, herself expressing her frustration with her role as a dam in a world that favoured males, Kíli venting his anger at the one or the other grievance or Fíli finding a sufficiently princely way to be an adolescent, there was always somebody chopping wood. Now it was Dwalin. The Durin temper, evident even in her stoic cousin who was usually silent and considerate outside of battle. Dís smiled.

That was a definite no for tea then, and actually, she agreed. Too much sitting around already. It was time to do something. The atkât she had now, until the next morning, and she intended to keep that traditional period of private mourning. Her grief still felt like a ravine that was engulfing her, covering her, crushing her. But it would not do to be stopped by grief. It would not do.

One more time. One more time of getting up and carrying on. She could not see a reason to carry on this time.

After the dragon, there had been her brothers and father to carry her along. In the dark days of exile, she had had her role as the only female of the royal line, the one that many of the dams looked to for guidance in these trying times. During the war, she had been a true leader of her people while the warriors fought. When they returned, she still saw her role as such and despite her grief, she saw others who had suffered more and required her help. When Thorin had stripped her of most of her duties to take on his own place as leader of their people, her fury had kept her fighting. That and the chance to build her own private life. Oh, Thorin had been furious. And her life with Jóli had been glorious. In all its simplicity and poverty, it had given her a drive and determination to build something for herself for the first time. When Jóli died, sadness had threatened to crush her for the first time. But that had not been an option. Her sons needed her. And she carried on.

Why would she carry on this time? Her sons were dead. Her brother was beyond her help. Her people apparently answered to King Dáin now. She did not know why she should carry on. But she would bridge that chasm when she got to it. Maybe Mahal had a reason for keeping her alive. Maybe he was waiting for her to find one. But Dís would go on. Would not stop until she herself became stone. Until she could finally join her family in the Halls of Waiting.

Time to pick herself up. Time to start carrying on. For whatever cause. If the furious noise of metal hitting wood was any indication, there might be a cause with her even on this very night. But for now, time to make sure her outside reflected the state of her inside.

Dwalin wiped his hands on his trousers once more. Sweat was dripping down his arms and from his forehead. It was obscuring his vision. He wiped his brow. No more wood. Nothing to do once more. He forced the axe down one last time, burying it in the chopping block. He would have to get that out again before he left Dís. For now, his arms ached in a pleasant fatigue, and his mind had become clearer.

He was still in his stocking feet and only now realised that his toes had become frigid with the cold water and mud he had stepped in on his way here. Time to go back inside. Time to continue with what he had started.

Dwalin felt himself shrink with every step he took towards the house. The warm glow of fire and lamp illuminated the window. He stood outside, squaring his shoulders, attempting to ready himself for the return to overwhelming grief. Not really a return. He carried his overwhelming grief with himself wherever he went. But a return to having to face Dís. He had to protect her. He had to be strong for her. He had to make sure he did not lose her.

Timidly, if a dwarf with his size, his reputation and his history could ever be timid, he stepped into the kitchen. He was just removing his soaked woollen socks from his feet when Dís called from the living room:

"I put some of Thorin's socks next to the hearth for you. There's water for a hot water bottle on the stove if you'd like one. I'll warm some mulled cider in a minute."

She sounded… different. She sounded like… Dís. If anything, this made him more timid as he approached the door to the lounge. It was warm and glowing in the firelight. And there was Dís.

She was sitting at the table, a lamp on either side of her, bowed over a looking glass, in her hand a small knife, around her strands of dark hair.

Dwalin froze in the doorway. Dís looked up. There was almost a glint in her eyes. But her face! Her face. She was cleanly shaven, making her look younger than she had in decades, almost a young maid again. Despite everything, she was not yet 180, in the prime of her life. But it looked so… wrong. So wrong to see a grown dwarrowdam with not even a shadow of a beard. And yet… it felt… right. This was the end of all she had known as an adult. The end of her life almost as much as it had been the end of their lives.

Dwalin felt a sting in his eyes that was not caused by sweat. Traitorous tears, so many tears today. Dís dropped the shaving knife and quickly gathered him in her arms. She pressed his head towards her bosom. It was an awkward embrace, their height difference very pronounced in this situation. But still… Dwalin felt he could breathe freely now.

His tears fell as she murmured soft words, stroked his hair and rubbed slow circles on his back.

Dís was so composed now. And he was not. How did he let this happen? Why was he not the one comforting her? Was he not the strong one, the warrior? And then again, that was the problem, wasn't it? That he was a warrior. The warrior who had killed her son.

"No. No. Don't Dís. Just don´t. I'm sorry. I shouldn't. You shouldn't… not me. I'm not… I was… Don't Dís. You don't want to. I… just… no…"

He struggled to make himself coherent, finally just waved her off as he took a step backward. But he could not… he could not leave as he knew he should… This was his duty. Dís was his duty. Despite everything. He reached out a hand. She nestled her face against it. Her cheek was so smooth. So different from her usual braided beard. Naked. Without protection. So different. So appropriate somehow to their situation. He wanted…

"I… Please, I want… like you…"

Dís looked at him, questioningly, but kindly. Then understanding dawned.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't. No. That's not right. I'm not family. I shouldn't."

He moved to turn away, but she caught his hands. Her grasp was soft, but he stilled.

"Dwalin… what I said earlier… about you being nothing to them… That was a lie. You have been like a brother to me, and you have been another uncle to them. You were there when Thorin was... busy being a royal. You were there when they needed you. You were there for them... at the end."

"I wasn't."

"You were. Who was their amradshomak[1]?"

"I was. But…"

"So you were there. You were there for them at the end. You were family to them. You have every right to cut your beard as an outward sign of your grief. Though there is no need… you clearly carry grief in your heart and that's where it is most important. But if you want to… How about you sit down and tell me about your work as amradshomak? I would like to hear about their… about their funeral. And I could cut your beard for you while you talk?"

Dís was caressing his face now and Dwalin leaned into her touch. Why was she so kind to him? She wouldn't be if she knew… he should tell her, he really should. But how could he? To protect her… maybe to protect her he needed to not tell her… maybe he should remain silent… maybe he should just remain the good cousin. Maybe he could protect her in that way. Maybe this was right. Or as right as it could be anyways.

"Yes. Please. I would like that… I would like that… very much…"

Handling distraught warriors. If she was an expert at anything, it had to be that. So there was a reason to carry on, at least for the rest of the night. And tomorrow… she would bridge that chasm when she reached it. For now there was Dwalin. An obviously distraught Dwalin.

As she filled a bowl with warm water, she contemplated what she had witnessed. She had never seen Dwlin like that. Balin said he had broken at Azanulbizar, that it had been too much for the simple-minded young dwarrow, that that battle had unhinged him. Dís did not believe it. Dwalin had certainly suffered. Alive when so many of the older and more experienced warriors had fallen. Still strong when so many had been crippled. He had undoubtedly seen unspeakable horrors. Dís had attempted to speak to him about it, but he would not, would rather bear his burden in silence. She let him be, accepted that his healing lay in work, in exhausting his strength, in throwing himself in any battle he deemed worth fighting for good or for gold. Throwing himself back into the fire that had burned him, hardening himself like tempered steel.

Balin had told her about the recurring nightmares, had whispered about them as if they were a shameful secret, a testament of his younger brother's instability. Dís knew that many warriors had those battle dreams. She did not take them as a sign of weakness. Dwalin was neither weak nor simple-minded. He was not one to claim glory the way Thorin or Balin did. Dwalin was quiet, loyal and strong, not just physically. He had always been there for her. Unwavering. Stoic. With no regard for his own needs. What had changed now to make Dwalin show her his weakness? What had changed to make him suffer so much that he could not keep up his usual façade?

Dís gently brushed the coarse hair of her cousin's beard. It was tangled after weeks on the road. He rarely wore braids, both his hair and his fingers ill-suited to any delicate braiding. She brushed out his bushy moustache, the forked beard and the stiff sideburns. Grey threads speckled the dark mass of hair. They were no dwarrows any more.

Dwalin had closed his eyes. Dís' eyes rested on the fearsome scar that cut his right eyebrow in half. He had almost lost is eye to that wound. And his life to the ensuing infection. She did not want to think about what this day would have been like if he had succumbed to the wound back then. Her nimble fingers smoothed the scarred skin. He was here. He was with her.

She picked up a set of shears.

"Are you sure about this?"

A curt nod.

"All of it?"

Another nod.

"I could just shorten it. It would still be…"

A vigorous shake of the head.

She stroked her fingers through his beard one last time. It would be a loss to her. She appreciated the gesture, could see that Dwalin needed a way to express his grief just as much as she did, but it would still be a loss to her. She smiled, fondly remembering the warrior's crest Dwalin had worn in his younger days. How life changes us. How even our hair can chronicle those changes.

With a sigh, Dís raised the shears. First one handle of the moustache, then the other fell victim to the sharp edge, revealing Dwalin's lips, tightly pressed together. She cropped the two sides of his beard close to his chin, the forked ends one small resemblance between the sons of Fundin. She placed the strands of hair on the table, mingling with her own, then took to shortening the sideburns. Slowly, a younger Dwalin seemed to emerge behind all the hair. Still the same person and yet, a different face.

As she began lathering his face, she encouraged Dwalin to speak about his duties as amradshomak and about the funeral preparation for her brother and her sons. This would take a while. She might as well hear the rest of the story now.

Dwalin felt him relax as Dís' gentle hands worked up a lather on his face. He could do this. He had to give her that small consolation since she had not been present for the funerals of her family members.

"Balin… he was amradshomak for Thorin. It was all very proper. Everybody paid their respects and Balin guarded him. Everybody came. Bard the Bowman and the Men from Laketown. Dáin and the Dwarves of the Iron Hills. Beorn the Skinchanger. The Wizard Gandalf. Everybody came. Even Thranduil of Mirkwood. Everybody.

All the members of the company… they all stood guard right up to the funeral. He was never alone. Balin… he dressed him in the finest robes. A splendid armour. He looked like a king. He really was a king at the end. All his weapons are buried with him. His sword. He found that sword on the journey. An elvish blade… but still, it was of good make. A sword of Gondolin they said. Thousands of years old but still as sharp as it was the day it was made. It even had a name. Orcrist they called it, the goblin cleaver. Apparently it had belonged to some elflord once. Ecthelion or some such name… it was a good blade. A blade for a king. And he was… he was a king. Thorin was.

Balin made sure he was treated as one. The funeral… it was… it was special. The first big celebration in Erebor after so long. The lower levels were mostly intact. Thorin rests with his forefathers. It was all as it should be. Just not yet. Not when he was still so young. Not when he had just reclaimed his home. But Balin did everything right. It was really… a funeral for… for a king. Because he was. He was good at the end. He was what we had hoped for. Just not that way… not…"

Dwalin was breathing hard. It was probably the most she had ever heard him speak. Typical for him to highlight his brother's role first. To think of Thorin before all else. Dís looked at him with both sadness and fondness. He too had lost much.

"Thank you, Dwalin. Thanks to both Balin and you. Thank you for being there for my brother. I'm glad he had you with him at the… at the end."

She picked up the blade and for a while she worked in silence.

No place for talking when she was wielding a razor around his lips. When she paused for a short while, Dwalin spoke again. Best get on with it now that he had started.

"The lads… I carried them from the battlefield. I did not… I did not want anybody to touch them. They are no spectacle to be gawked at… They were… in quite a state… Kíli… Kíli was so broken. There was no resistance in his body as I carried him… his back… just… not there any more… Fíli, he was… there was so much blood. Just blood everywhere… So much blood!"

He paused and Dís seemed to regard that has her signal to continue with the shave, but he continued as soon as the blade left his skin.

"I bathed them so they could go to Mahal looking like princes. Not sure I did the best with Fíli's braids. My fingers are not Kíli's! And then I… well, I had to suture their wounds as well. I did not want… want Óin to do that…"

Sure you didn't. You did not want him to see. You did not want him to ask questions.

"I tried… the small wounds, they were quite easy… they both had many of those. Kíli… he had no big open wounds…"

Except for that one. Not big, but mortal. And you stitched it shut like nothing had happened.

"But Fíli… I removed the spear from his shoulder. It had gone clean through. That looked alright in the end. Stitches too big, but I tried, I really did. His neck… that was bad… I'm sorry Dís… I'm sorry… I, I made a mess of it, I did. Under the armour, nobody could see it in the end… but I knew… I knew it was there and it was not good… I shouldn't have done that… I made a mess of that wound…"

He flexed his hands. Too big, too rough. Not enough. Only enough to kill. The only thing he was good at.

"I'm sure you did your best… and you know… sometimes it's not about how good the result is, it's about who does it… I'm glad you were the one who did that for him, Dwalin. I'm so glad."

A little smile fought its way to his lips.

"That's what he said, Fíli did. He said it wasn't important if it didn't turn out perfect, he just… he wanted it to be me who did it… Back when I gave him his first tattoo…"

"You did what? Dwalin! He was barely of age!"

"Humm… he …wasn't, actually… Not when… you know…"

"Oi! Watch it, you! Despoiling my little boy! You might not want to tell me that when I've got a blade at your throat!"

She pressed the little razor teasingly against his skin, just shy of hard enough to break the skin. Oh if she just knew… if she knew she would… She did not. Maybe she should not. Maybe he should just continue his tale.

"I bathed them and I dressed them… it was like they were dwarrows again… It was… not easy… but I'm glad I could do that for them…"

Dís squeezed his arm. No time now to get caught up in emotions. Go on.

"They looked like princes in the end. Just sleeping. I found a blue cloak for Fíli… you always said it brings out the blue of his eyes so nicely… so I thought… they got splendid armour as well, all from Erebor. Good, ancient armour. Glóin was… not happy… thought it was a waste… but… it's not, you know. It's good, because it's for them. They should look like princes. They gave everything for Erebor… for us… it's the least we could do… I staid with them the entire time… Balin said I should not, I should somebody else keep watch… but I was their amradshomak, I couldn't just leave them… they were just lads… they should not have to be alone… I cleaned up a bit, I did, before the funeral, but I did not leave them."

Balin had probably been right. But the consequences his decision had had for his own health seemed to be naught compared to remaining with the lads for as long as possible.

"We buried them on the second day after the battle. Right after Thorin. It was smaller. Not as official. But still… they had touched many lives… especially Kíli… even the elves knew him and knew him fondly… many mourned for them. Really mourned. We buried them together… I mean, really… I hope that's alright… Óin said it wasn't right, that dwarves should be buried alone… But… we bury the dead with their treasures… They had their weapons. And they had each other. We buried them with their hands linked. It seemed… right. We gave them the harps as well. A symbol of their joy and their spirit. Buried with all their treasures. I hope that was… alright…"

He really hoped it was. The razor scraped across his skin as Dís worked in silence.

What if she had preferred a more traditional burial? He had really pushed for things to be done the way they had. What if he had messed up? What if he had just added more grief to her suffering? At least this one thing he should have done right…

At last Dís put the blade aside and gently washed his face, then patted it dry with a soft cloth.

"Thank you, Dwalin", she said simply, "I'm so glad. They will be a joy in the Halls of Mandos. I'm sure their forefathers were not prepared for the riot these two cause. I'm glad, Dwalin. I'm so glad they had you."

[1]Guard of the Dead, borrowed from the article on dwarven customs surrounding death written by the Dwarrowscholar.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair word of warning: This is NOT a nice chapter, particularly the middle part that's written from Dwalin's point of view. War with all its consequences. Emotional trauma, physical injuries, death. No in-depth graphic details, but not glossed over either. Morally very ambiguous (or downright cruel and inexcusable) decisions. If you do read it, I would very much appreciate your views on it. This chapter presents some key ideas that I wanted to write about.

The two faces in the looking glass looked only vaguely familiar. Tired eyes in bare faces. No grown dwarf should look so vulnerable. No grown dwarf should _be_ so vulnerable. Those were their faces now. Dwalin and Dís. United in their nakedness, united in their grief. It might not be traditional or even proper for a mere cousin of the deceased to display his grief like that, but Dís was glad that Dwalin had joined her in this. Of course she would have done this alone. But it felt good to not be alone. Somebody still cared. Somebody mourned her boys even when the world seemed to have moved on already, onwards to a new royal family, a new leader, a new prince. Nobody would ever replace her princes in her heart. Dwalin's bare face next to hers seemed to suggest that he felt the same.

Her eyes met his in the glass. She smiled weakly. There would be talk. There would be raised eyebrows. Like it mattered. Neither of them was used to widespread approval. She had rarely pleased her brother; Dwalin rarely seemed enough for his. Both of them had learned long ago that opinions were something to be acknowledged, but in no way their responsibility. It looked like Dwalin would follow where she led. Now she just needed to decide where she wanted to lead him.

First and foremost towards a drink, she decided. She could use something to take the edge off her pain. And Dwalin certainly looked like he needed a drink. Poor Dwalin. Pain, grief and guilt had worn him down. Maybe he had had too much time to think about it all. Maybe she would crumble like that in a few weeks time. For now, the pain was enclosed in her heart, at the centre of her being, but no longer overwhelming her. There were things to be done.

Mulled cider. Mulled cider first and foremost. Dís busied herself with the steaming, fragrant liquid. She chose the two largest mugs. Much needed in these circumstances.

Dwalin nodded his thanks and then sank back into his reverie. For once, he did not immediately down his drink. His hands clutched the mug as if it would help him to steady himself. Something was wrong. Something more than being the harbinger of bad news. She decided to give him time.

Dís waited. She was not sure what she was waiting for. But she was good at waiting. She had waited for many people, her grandfather and father, Frerin and Thorin, Fíli and Kíli, Jóli and now Dwalin. Carrying on with life, but always alert and ready to change everything at a moment's notice. After all these decades, it came naturally. Thorin had assumed that that was just the nature of dwarrowdams. That was not true. There were many things she wanted to do. But they were usually not conform to the role she was supposed to take and could only be achieved by less overt methods. And that meant waiting.

"It should not be that way," Dwalin finally croaked.

She gave him a questioning look, still touched by how young and lost this new, beardless Dwalin looked.

"It's not natural. None of this," he elaborated, sweeping his arms in an all-encompassing gesture, "Parents, they die. And grandparents. Siblings even. And spouses. They die. But children do not die before their parents. No, not children."

She almost laughed at that. He was so naïve! It took her a moment to push those unhelpful thoughts aside before she answered.

"That's not true, Dwalin... This is a dwarrowdam's reality. Children don't die before their parents… that's what you warriors tell yourselves… that's your reality. Only because you go and get yourselves killed before your sons get a chance to do so. Fathers may not bury their sons, but mothers do. Just look at our line… Nál buried Náin. Bara buried Dáin just four years after her husband, and with him she buried her grandson Frór. Just think of your own grandmother. Gridr was still alive after Azanulbizar and knowing that your father had been a burned dwarf almost broke her[1]."

Dwalin twitched at that, after all those years still so sensitive whenever Fundin was mentioned, but Dís continued.

"Children die before their parents. This is the dwarrowdams' reality. You go off to war. We are the ones who are left behind. We are the ones who make sure you have a home to come back to. And once those few of you who return make their way back to that home, we fall silent again and let you be the heroes. This is natural, or so you tell us."

Seeing Dwalin's wide eyes, Dís almost regretted her speech. He was not Thorin. On the contrary. Dwalin had always treated her as an equal, and often more than that. But still… he did not understand what it meant to wait. To wait when you knew that the only things you were waiting for were death and destruction, if not now then after the next battle.

"I wasn't… I didn't… I didn't mean… I'm sorry, Dís."

"Don't be. I just… want you to know. This is reality. There is nothing special about me. This is what your wars do to us. I'm the only one here this time… but I mourn with the dams of the Iron Hills, with the women of Laketown and even with the elven ladies of Mirkwood. We are the ones your wars leave behind."

There was a long pause. Then Dwalin's eyes found hers. Stone grey and Durin blue.

"I won't leave you behind."

She smiled sadly and patted his hands that were still clutching the mug of cider.

"Sure you won't, Dwalin, sure…"

"I won't. I'm… I'm tired… tired of war… though I don't know what else there is…"

Now that was a surprise. Dwalin, the warrior. Dwalin, the hothead. Dwalin the maniac. Dwalin, the most feared and respected fighter in the Blue Mountains. That was an unexpected development. Dwalin had worked in the forge, Dwalin had sat through diplomatic meetings, Dwalin had always taken particular joy in training the youngest dwarves, but in his heart he had always been a warrior. If even he was tired of war… Maybe there was hope yet for the darkness in this world. Maybe.

"I don't know, Dwalin," she answered truthfully, "That might not be a choice you can make… there might not be much of a choice… I don't know what else there is."

And she truly did not know. But she could hope. Maybe she could hope.

"Where do we go from here?"

"For now we go to bed. It is late. We can figure out the next steps tomorrow. Let's go to bed, Dwalin."

She showed him to Thorin's chamber and while he hesitated, he did not refuse the room. No sentimentality, Dís chided herself. It's a room, not a shrine. Her brother had been gone for months, had been dead for weeks. Keeping his bedding untouched would not bring him back. Might as well make sure Dwalin was comfortable tonight.

She undressed and brushed her hair before braiding it in a simple plait for the night. It was strange to not brush her beard. There was no more beard. Her smooth cheeks felt strange. Thorin would have let his beard grow out now that the mountain had been reclaimed. She had never seen him with a long beard, King of the Longbeards though he was. Now she was the Queen of the Barecheeks.

As she lay on her own bed, she found herself reluctant to go to sleep. She was tired. Her mind and body equally exhausted. But this would be the end. If she fell asleep now, there would never again come a day when she still believed that her sons were alive.

Every morning from now on she would wake up as the mother of dead sons.

Mother of Fíli and Kíli.

Fíli and Kíli.

Dead.

* * *

He could not fall asleep. He could not do that to Dís. He did not need Balin to remind him. He would not do that to Dís. Especially not after that. Not after what she had told him. He would not bring the war to her. Not to Dís. He wanted to protect her. Even from that. Even from himself. Especially from himself. He could not fall asleep. He would not fall asleep.

He would just lie down for a moment. He needed to stretch his leg. A long day in the saddle followed by walking and standing and sitting. His leg hurt. All thanks to the elven healers. Óin had told him that there was no hope for his leg. The wounds too deep, the infection too bad. Once the funerals had been over, too much time had gone by without anyone having a look at his injuries. No hope for his leg, no hope for his life. And then he woke up from his fever and still had both, life and leg. He had been disappointed then. They had told him that the pain might never go away, but he did not mind. The pain would never go away. He did not need a mangled leg for that. He had been disappointed that he still had his mangled life. But here he was, bad leg and all. Still alive. Still here. Still trying to make up for what he had done.

He slowly took off his clothes. After weeks in the wild, they desperately needed a wash. He piled them on the stool in the corner. For now, undergarments would do. He sifted through his pack for a somewhat clean set. His muscles protested at the continued bending over. He straightened up, just in his loincloth and assessed his body in the dim light of the lamp. It had been weeks since he had been able to gauge the damage. Some of the new scars were beginning to fade to a pale pink. The larger ones were still an angry red. Some deeper scratches and cuts that were only now healing completely. Some had cut through his existing tattoos. He would let Nori have a look at those, see if he could come up with ways to salvage the geometric patterns and to disguise the damage that had been done.

He tentatively felt along the rugged scar on his right side. No way to disguise the shape of that one. It felt like every single tooth was permanently embossed in his flesh. His fingers traced the rough imprint of a massive jaw. That warg had taken a good bite out of him. Not quite as much as the two that had mauled his leg, but still. He was still amazed that there had apparently been no internal damage done. Maybe his muscles had been good for something for once. Somehow they had been knitted together again. The tender scar strained as he stretched to drop his grey undertunic over his shoulders and he hissed softly between his teeth.

Quiet. He was only too aware that Dís was only separated from him by a thin wall. He had helped Thorin put it there, decades ago, when his sister and nephews had moved in with him and the sleeping chamber had to be split in two. Not much privacy. He had not envied Thorin that.

Still, for all his efforts to keep this from Dís, he could not suppress a sigh when he finally stretched his legs out on the narrow bed. He still had some of the fragrant salve that soothed his aches somewhat. Óin had grumbled about flowery elven nonsense, but it brought Dwalin some relief, so he was happy to overlook its origins. He rubbed it into the aching muscles, patched together and knobbly where the wargs had torn off great pieces of flesh. The sweet smell of the salve made the tension in his shoulders vanish and helped him relax.

He leaned back onto the soft pillow. He would just lie here for a moment to give his skin a chance to absorb the ointment. Then he would put his breeches on and sit up to keep his watch for the night.

Just a moment.

He thought about the events of that day. Their arrival. Dís reaction. Balin. His own reaction. Shaving their beards. He brushed his hand over his jaw. Smooth. Less hair than even Kíli.

Kíli.

Mud and blood splattered over his sorry excuse of a beard. Colourless lips in a pale face. Dwalin stroking his face. Trying to be there, trying to show him that he was not alone.

Kíli.

Pleading. Voice soft in the din of the battle that had moved away from the little hillock they were on. Fíli, he asked, Fíli. And Dwalin could only shake his head. No Fíli, not any more. The broken look in Kíli's eyes. Broken like his body.

_I cannot move, Dwalin. My legs are just not there. My arms, they prickle, but I don't think I can move them. I have no strength, Dwalin. Why can I not move? Why is my body like that? It hurts, Dwalin. It hurts. Make it stop. I don't want to be like this._

Knowing just by the way his body was curved that there was no hope. Feeling down his spine just to make sure. Feeling where the morning star had struck, had crushed, had torn everything in its way. Beyond help. Kíli might not feel it, but Dwalin could. The hardness of his belly. The signs that more damage had been done internally. More than the healers could fix.

Kíli read the truth in his eyes.

_Where is Fìli, Dwalin? I want Fíli. I want him to be here. I cannot do this without him. I want my Fíli._

He had never been alone. They had never been separated for long. His brother had always been there. The two young princes, never alone. Fíli and Kíli. It was like one name. Fíli and Kíli, always together. The shock in their eyes every time they had been split up during the quest. Fíli refusing to leave his brother, always refusing to leave his brother, until he couldn't refuse any more. And Kíli saw, and finally he understood. Understood that his brother was not coming back for him.

_Thorin. I saw Thorin fall. Thorin is dead. And Fíli. Why Fíli? He was Thorin's heir. He was supposed to be king. And he was supposed to be with me. I was supposed to support him. Mum said so. Keep supporting your brother. I did Dwalin, I really did. Why did he leave me? Why did he leave me all alone?_

No answers. Only questions. His king was dead. His prince was dead. His other prince lay dying. Dwalin did not know the answers. He never knew the answers.

_I want to leave, Dwalin. I want to run away. I can't be without Fíli. I want to go. I want to run away. Help me. Help me run away._

It was futile. Kíli's muscles did not answer the commands he gave them. Dwalin could shape his limbs like a doll's. There was no resistance. The determined look in Kíli's eyes turned to despair.

_Gandalf can heal me. Or the elves. They can fix me. They can make my body work again. Right, Dwalin, they can do that? They can heal this? Dwalin, say they can do that?_

Elvish medicine and a wizard. That had to count for something. Gandalf. Gandalf was their hope. Gandalf could make Kíli better. His body, and hopefully his mind too. There was hope. There was hope for a while.

Then the certainty. Certainty that Kíli could survive. That the damage done to his insides could be healed. But what was gone, was gone. He would not regain the use of his limbs. Active Kíli would never run again, never string a bow again, never even whittle away on a piece of wood.

A long silence. The laboured breaths of the young dwarf in his arms. Sweat on his brow.

_I cannot be King under the Mountain. I cannot even sit up. I cannot rule Erebor. I cannot even control my own body. How can I be king?_

Assuring him that he would be a good king. And Dwalin believed it. Kíli did not.

_No, I would be weak. There would be others. There would be Dáin. Some would support him. Some would support me. There would be more fighting. I don't want to fight any more, Dwalin. I want to run away. I want to be with Fíli._

That was the point when time stopped. When everything stopped. When Dwalin could only hear his own heavy heartbeat, could only feel the frantic fluttering of Kíli's pulse. Life. Still there. Still alive.

Back in time. Back to that first time.

The war against the orcs, fighting deep beneath the misty mountains. He was young then. They had been in battle. Once more there had been no winner. But they were resting now, resting in a big cave. He was helping his uncle tend the wounded. There were many. Gróin was looking after the worst cases. He needed Dwalin, needed his strength to carry them, to hold them down when he amputated limbs, to remove arrowheads stuck in bones. They had run out of poppy milk long ago. Now strength was the sedative. Not like most of these warriors would need sedation for much longer. Even without training Dwalin could see that many would not last through the night. Not under these conditions.

Shouts. The orcs were coming. Trolls with them and all sorts of devilry. Get up, move, run, faster. But they could not move. Gróin's patients could not move. The healer argued with his cousin the king.

_We cannot move them._

_We cannot hold this position._

_We have to carry them._

_We cannot spare the warriors to do that._

_We cannot leave them._

_We cannot take them._

_The orcs will torture them._

_There is nothing we can do._

_We cannot leave them for their sport._

_Then make sure they give no more sport._

_I have no poppy milk left._

_You have your weapons._

_I cannot do that, I'm a healer!_

He _is no healer._

_You cannot mean…_

_We have to move and we cannot leave a dwarf to torture. This is my order._

With that the king turned and strode away. Everyone was moving, everyone was shouting. The noise of the fight echoing in the cavern. Hold them back a little longer, move the camp on, rouse the weary, run.

In the middle of it all, time stopped. Gróin faced his nephew. Pleading eyes.

_Please Dwalin. They are my patients. I cannot leave them to be tortured. Please._

There was no time to think. There was no time for alternatives. Even now the fight at the far end of the cave was turning against the dwarven fighters. How could he fail his uncle? How could he disobey his king?

He took as much time as he could with each of them. He asked Mahal to let their spirits sleep. He prayed that Mahal could call upon their spirits despite the lack of a proper burial.

At least they were in a mountain.

At least he made it quick. He could do that. He could make it quick.

_Make it quick, Dwalin._

His father was begging him. Azanulbizar. The great battle. The battle without end. The battle with a victory that felt like defeat. So many lay dead. More still lay dying. He had searched the battlefield for a long time before he had found his father.

Fundin lay dying. A cruel cut had opened his abdomen, intestine spilling from the wound.

There was no hope. Fundin knew it. Dwalin knew it.

His father screamed in agony. His hands had torn great trenches in the ground around him, blood and mud on his fingers. Blood and mud in his wound.

_I will find Gróin._

_There is nothing Gróin can do._

_Maybe there is something._

_There is nothing. I don't want him to see me like this._

_What can I do? Tell me how I can help you?_

_Make it quick, Dwalin. Let me go._

So much blood and suffering that day. So much. And in the middle of it all, time had stopped. Just Dwalin and his father. They said their goodbyes. Dwalin cradled his father's head in his hands and pressed a last kiss on his brow.

He could make it quick. A sharp blade was all it took.

Mahal, let his spirit sleep.

Kíli's eyes.

Pleading. Begging him. Yearning to be with his brother. Yearning to be whole again.

Kíli's eyes.

Closed.

* * *

"Noooo!"

Dís was woken up by Dwalin's scream. She was out of bed in an instant. The grunts and groans were barely muffled by the thin wall that separated them. She quickly lit a lamp and slipped out of her room.

Her cousin was writhing on Thorin's narrow cot. His muscles were taunt, body so tense that it looked like the massive dwarf was about to snap in two. Sleep must have caught up with him before he even had a chance to put on his breeches. His teeth were bared, gritted as if in pain. Sweat dripped from his forehead. But his eyes remained closed.

He had fallen asleep after all. He must have been exhausted indeed to let that happen. It was unlike Dwalin to let his guard down. But she was glad that he had, here in the comfort of her house rather than among his traveling companions. Battle dreams. They caught up with them in the end.

She knew better than to approach him in this state. She had learned that lesson long ago after Frerin had nearly strangled her when he was caught in one of those dreams.

She knew that the warriors would usually throw a boot at their comrades to wake them up, but that struck her as cruel. Instead, she remained standing in the doorframe and began to sing softly. Just a nonsense lullaby she had often sung to her boys, but the simple tune felt calming amidst Dwalin's distress.

"Hush-a-bye, baby, lie still, lie still, your mother's away to the mill, the mill; Baby is weeping for want of good keeping, Hush-a-bye, baby, lie still, lie still.

Hush-a-bye, baby, you're fine, you're fine, your father's away in the mine, the mine; Baby is weeping for want of good keeping, Hush-a-bye, baby, you're fine, you're fine.

Hush-a-bye, baby, breathe deep, breathe deep, your brother's away with the sheep, the sheep. Baby is weeping for want of good keeping, Hush-a-bye, baby, breathe deep, breathe deep…"

With a shout, Dwalin's eyes snapped open and he sat up with a start. He looked around wildly and took a moment to orient himself. Then his eyes fell on Dís, still standing in the doorframe, singing softly.

"Dís! No!"

"Hush, Dwalin. Do not fret. You are safe now."

"I am… safe."

"Yes, Dwalin. Hush."

He was obviously still agitated and shaken from his dream. Battle dreams. Plight of the survivors. Dís yearned to take Dwalin in her arms and gently rock them like a small child. She knew she could not banish the monsters of his dreams the way she had been able to banish the balrogs under her sons' bed. But she could not bear to see such helpless despair and sit by idly.

She moved to sit next to her cousin to comfort him, but he rose up hastily. He seemed to have trouble balancing, as he swayed alarmingly, before catching himself and towering above her, glowering.

"I'm alright."

"You are not. You are not _alright_."

"That is not a choice I can make, Dís. I _am_ alright... I have to be. This is me. I _am_ alright. Always."

He gave her a sad smile and turned away, but she caught his arm.

"Out there. Yes. Out there you have to be alright. You are the guard, the warrior, the hero. But in here, in here you are Dwalin. And you don't have to be anything. You are not _alright_ and that is fine. All I want you to be is Dwalin. Just this once, just for me, please be just Dwalin. That's all I want."

She raised herself upon the tips of her toes and pressed a kiss on his forehead.

"Just... Dwalin..."

* * *

[1]As Dís was the only female dwarf Tolkien ever named, I took some liberties here with the lives and names of the women of the house of Durin. For me, Nál (needle) is the wife of Óin and mother of Náin; Bara (wave) the wife of Náin and mother of Dáin I and Borin; Gridr (peace) is the wife of Farin and mother of Fundin and Gróin (and therefore grandmother of Balin, Dwalin, Óin and Glóin). All names are of Nordic origin, just as the ones Tolkien used. Many male dwarves did indeed die early and violent deaths, so it seems reasonable to assume that many sons were survived by their mothers.


	6. Chapter 6

The rest of the night had been quiet. They had sat down in the lounge again. Both had been lost in their thoughts, but drew strength from each other's proximity. Eventually, Dwalin had fallen asleep again. Dís had watched his even breaths for a while before she herself closed her eyes. Sleep had come surprisingly easily once more, testament to her exhaustion.

It was still dark outside when she woke and Dwalin was still snoring softly. She had dreaded the moment when reality came crashing back to drown her, but it never came. Sleep had not dulled her awareness of the deep pain she carried. Sleeping or awake, it remained the same. She revelled in the warmth that surrounded her. The fire had nearly gone out during the night and she could feel the cold air against her bare face. Her body was warm, nestled as she was against Dwalin who seemed to exude heat, just as she remembered it from their wandering days when both of them had been no more than dwarrows. The brightly coloured patchwork quilt covered both of them.

Slowly she wriggled her way out from underneath the blanket, carful not to jostle Dwalin or alert him to her movement. After what she had seen in the night, he could probably use all the rest he was able to get. Poor Dwalin. She still wondered what sort of demons were hunting him so relentlessly.

Dís slipped into her clothes, wrapped herself in a warm shawl and put on her wooden clogs – made by Kíli – and opened the kitchen door to make her way to the privy. The stars were slowly fading and the first sliver of light could be seen in the East. The East that had taken her entire family. Somewhere yonder, there were the Misty Mountains, there was Erebor. Dís shivered.

It was cold, but the cloudless sky promised a clear day. Her feet crunched the freshly fallen snow. Her house was on the hillside giving her a good view of the entire settlement nestled in between the arms of the mountain. The small houses were covered with a fresh dusting of snow. Some inhabitants were already awake and had stoked the fires, so small wisps of smoke made their way from stone chimneys towards the sky. Beyond their protective wall, the outline of snow-laden pines could be seen in the dim light of the encroaching dawn. An idyllic scene, one that she had always loved. This had been her haven. Life had not always been easy. In the first few decades in the Ered Luin, the dwarven colony had lived in bitter poverty. They had known hunger and the odd skirmish with wolves or goblins. Nonetheless, for a warlike people in an increasingly volatile world, this was peace and harmony. How ironic that such a perfect day was bound to experience so much discontent.

There would not be much peace and harmony today. As much as she wanted to hide herself in the depth of the mountains to mourn in solitude, she knew that she could not afford such luxury. There was an entire community waiting for her. She was not the only one grieving the loss of the other three Durins. There were the daily affairs to be seen to. And finally, there was the matter of succession that would undoubtedly have to be discussed.

She chuckled to herself when she opened the door to the outbuilding and found that Dwalin had indeed split all the wood. He had also embedded the axe deeply in the chopping block. A true Durin temper, that one!

While she scattered feed among the chickens, Dís contemplated her next steps. Her atkât was over and while she would not be expected to fully participate in social life again so soon, undoubtedly there would be somebody delivering bread and eggs soon, the traditional meal to break the fast after the atkât. After that, she would have to show her face in the town and see to affairs in the great hall. The community had to see her, to be reassured that she was still there and not that much had changed. Despite everything being so different from what it had been a mere day ago. Then there were the dwarves from Erebor that she needed to properly welcome. She wanted to talk to her brother's other companions, but knew that Dáin's son would probably take much of her time up. She was not sure what his presence here actually meant. That was it then. She would have to find out. Ideally before she was in any danger of committing a faux pas. She would have to find out what had happened after her hasty departure from the town square the previous afternoon.

She strode off, not down the hill to the main rode, but towards the uphill end of her property, along a small path that was scarcely visible beneath the snow. It led towards another small stone house that was dwarfed by the enormous barn next to it and stood amidst a cluster of smaller outbuildings. A few cows turned their big, beautiful eyes towards Dís as she slid through the large wooden door. Clattering could be heard from a small chamber at the end of the barn. Dís could see a stout dam with a shock of tightly curled black hair pour milk from a large iron milk churn into smaller containers that were sitting in robust square baskets. As the dam lifted one of the baskets onto a low cart, she noticed Dís standing in the barn.

In a flurry of skirts and apron, she flew towards Dís and hugged her fiercely.

"Oh Dís, there are no words. No words at all. How absolutely horrible!"

Dís let herself relax into her friends embrace for a moment. But soon she gathered herself together again.

"It's alright, Rúna. I'm… alright…"

"Nonsense. How could you be? Here. Have a seat and tell me what I can do to help you."

Dís was pushed down on a bale of hay and faced the scrutiny of Rúna's charcoal eyes.

"Oh look at you, jewel, not much sleep tonight, eh? And your poor face!"

Dís self-consciously stroked her naked chin.

"Not that. Look at your forehead. What happened there?"

"I just… ahh, it was nothing. Stupid really. I was…"

"Grief hurts, it sure does. Let's see. Nothing we can't fix in a jiffy. Some arnica will work wonders on that!"

"Dwalin already…"

"Ah, did he now. Good lad, that. Now, anyways. How are you feeling, sweetheart?"

Dís shrugged.

"Sad. Empty…"

She looked up helplessly. Tears were in Rúna's eyes as she pulled her into another crushing embrace.

"Oh Dís, Dís… I cannot even imagine…"

Even though Rúna was older than Dís by almost two decades, their children were of an age. Both of them had been widowed a long time ago, a shared fate that had drawn them even closer together. Thankfully they did not share this latest experience.

"Did they tell you anything?"

"Dwalin said there was a battle… and that they died as heroes…"

The older dwarrowdam huffed.

"Not much consolation, that. The mountain has really been reclaimed then?"

"Aye, that it has."

"Right… word in the town was that it had been."

"What happened after I…? I'm sorry that I just… left…"

"Now don't you worry none. Perfectly sensible, that. All good as far as can be. I put those Iron Hills folk up in the guest rooms in the mountain. That haughty young one, Thorin you said? Him and two of his father's councillors and two guards. Mahal knows why that young lad cannot take care of himself. They are all in the mountain, all nice and proper. I made sure to bring over an evening meal and a good barrel of ale. Now our own lads, they will always have a place wherever they go. Glad to be back home, they were."

"Who came back? I didn't even…"

Rúna turned back to he work, effortlessly distributing milk from the heavy pail while she spoke.

"Balin, obviously. Oh you should have seen him, he was fuming at the ears when Dwalin just spirited you away. Glóin. He was glad to be with his family again, he sure was. And young Ori. He just came to retrieve his and his brothers' things. No family here, the poor lad. I just took him home with us. Still snoozing away, the poor wee scrap. Even tinier than when he left here, if you ask me. And he's hurting something fierce, sure is."

"I have to talk to him… he was there… and… ach, I don't even dare to think about how many people have been affected by their deaths…"

"Easy now, Dís, easy. You just come up to the house with me and we'll have a spot of breakfast, all of us, as soon as the bairns are back from their milk rounds."

"I can't… Dwalin… he invoked the atkât for me…"

Rúna was visibly taken aback by this, but recovered quickly.

"Did he now, did he… well done, that, well done indeed. So what are you doing here then? You should be in your own halls, treasure! That's what it's all about. Atkât is the silence and you should not be bothered by folk, not at all."

"They are going to bring me the bread and eggs soon and then… I just wanted to know what the situation is like before I go into the mountain."

Rúna shot her a concerned glance before she answered.

"No good, that's for sure. They didn't give us any explanation or anything. But everybody knows about Thorin and the lads. There's the wildest stories flying around. About an alliance with the elves and all sorts of nonsense. But Dís, everybody is heartbroken. Such terrible news! And worried they are, all of them. Not sure what's happening now, without Thorin and all. Right worried they all are. But I said to them young ones last night, we still have our Lady Dís and she has never failed us. But Dís… that young Thorin boy… he seems to think himself a prince, that's what Balin called him as well… and Ori says his father, some Dáin, that he calls himself the King under the Mountain."

"Does he now… I was afraid he would have his fingers in those matters…"

"Well, that's nonsense now, surely. You are Thorin's sister after all! Queen Dís, now that's got a ring to it! And all in my milking parlour!"

"Don't, Rúna… it seems that a dam is not good enough for the high lords now… it seems that a second cousin is now closer to the direct line of Durin than a sister."

"Mahal! Surely not! They can't do that now, can they?"

"Not without my signature, they can't. I guess, that's why Thorin is here…"

"Ha! Like you are ever going to sign that! Fools, the lot of them!"

Rúna harrumphed and moved an empty pail across the room with more force than necessary. When she noticed Dís' silence, she turned sharply and put her hands on her hips.

"You are not, are you?"

Dís sighed.

"I don't know, I honestly don't know."

"Dís, daughter of Thráin, son of Thrór, you look at me now. Don't you make any decisions that you'll come to regret. You are grieving now, and no mistake. Sure enough, you don't want to do nothing right now. But don't let them fancy councillors and all get the better of you. That crown is yours and you know it."

"That crown has taken every last member of my family… All of them died for that crown. If you ask me, I don't want to touch it with a set of forging tongs!"

"Ah, diamond… but they died for that crown… and you want to give it away?"

"I know… either way… it's not right, is it?"

"Difficult decision, difficult… Hear them out first, those iron heads. And then you don't let them rush you. You take your time to decide and don't put your name under anything! We've made do without a King under the Mountain, we can all wait a bit longer for him… or for a Queen under the Mountain!"

"I'll try…"

"You do that. And no matter what you do, lass, we've got your back. You hear me? The Ered Luin knows what a fine dwarrowdam you are. There's more important things than some pesky crown."

Dís had to chuckle at that.

"Right you are, Rúna. I'll head into town around mid morning. Could I ask you to bring some lunch to the great hall around noon? Nothing special… we are in mourning."

"That we are. We all are, Dís. I'll see to it. No bother at all."

"You are a treasure."

"Any time, gemstone, whatever you need."

"Thank you… I needed… this…"

They hugged again and Dís breathed deeply. The sweet smell of the fresh milk, the fragrant scent of the hay, the musky earthiness of the cows. Familiar aromas that told of normality and friendship and the hope that there still was some good in this world.

The first light of dawn was just creeping through the windows, when Dwalin woke. Asleep again. Hadn't he done enough damage already? At least this time he felt rested and relaxed. That earlier episode had been terrible. He should never have brought the war to her like that. He should not have fallen asleep at all. He would have to apologise to Dís.

Dís! He sat up with a start, ignoring the pain that flashed through his side and his leg. She had been next to him when he had fallen asleep. Now she was not. Calm down, he chided himself. She will have gone to bed. Just because you useless lump decided sleeping on the sofa was a good idea, does not mean decent folk want to do that. And certainly not with you there.

He shivered as he stood. The fire had almost died. He had not thought to see to it last night. Negligence. Carefully, he blew into the embers to rekindle the flames, and then added more wood. Soon enough he had a merry fire going again.

He washed in the kitchen before getting dressed and combing his hair. Strange to not be brushing his beard. His jaw felt prickly with stubble. Unusual, but not uncomfortable, he decided. He was thankful that Dís had let him join in with her mourning. And yet… he probably shouldn't have. He had no place there. He felt like an intruder.

"Hammer and coals!"

He cursed loudly as he opened the kitchen door only to stumble over a basket that somebody had left right on the doorstep. He caught himself on the doorframe and snapped his mouth shut. Eejit. Now he had woken Dís. Like she did not deserve every minute of sleep she could get. Of course somebody would have brought over the traditional meal to break the fast after the atkât. Well, they had better hardboiled those eggs!

Fortunately, the eggs had been boiled and showed no sign of damage. The eggs, as well as the loaf of bread, were still warm. Lucky really, in that cold weather. He might as well see about breakfast then. He stoked the fire in the hearth and put the kettle on, before heading for the privy. The sun was rising in the East, and the town showed signs of waking. Thorin's house had a strategic position on the hillside and offered a clear view of the main streets where a few industrious dwarves were already going about their business. Now if they would just keep minding their own business for the rest of the day.

He brewed a strong tea and set the table. A plate and mug for each of them, a tub of butter in the middle and a large pot of tea. Some sugar, cause Dís liked it sweet. Last, he unwrapped the contents of the basket. Plenty for the two of them. Bread and eggs. Eggs as a symbol of life. He should not even be allowed to have those. Life. The irony. He only took lives.

"Dís," he called, "Good morning!"

No answer.

"Dís," he called out again, "Breakfast is ready!"

Still no answer.

He knocked softly at the door of her room.

"Dís, you alright in there?"

Eejit. Of course she was not alright.

"Dís, can I come in?"

Her silence was beginning to make him nervous. She had every right to be angry with him. If she did not want to see him, he would leave straight away. He just had to make sure that she was… well, that nothing was physically wrong with her.

"Dís, I'm coming in."

He slowly opened the door, steeling himself for whatever was waiting for him on the other side.

Nothing. No Dís. Bed neatly made. Not a sign of her.

"Mahal help me," he breathed. He had driven her away. She had been so distressed yesterday. And then he had… She had seemed quite composed to him, but then he had been in no state to judge. How long had she been standing there? What had he said in his battle dreams? What had he done? Had he… oh no… Mahal…

He turned on his heel and ran out of the house, not heeding the cold of the snow on his bare feet. Useless eejit. The wargs should have killed him.

He went to the outbuilding first. No Dís.

He ran around the house. No Dís.

No Dís anywhere.

Where could she have gone this early in the morning? He ran half way up the hill before stopping himself. Think, Dwalin. Where would she go? What would she do? Think! What if it had all been too much for her? He should have been there for her, but no, he went and fell asleep. She needed him and he was not there. Why? Why could he not do something right for once? Mahal only knew where she had gone.

She must have despaired. Understandable. They were all dead. She was the only one left. And he had left her alone. And now she was gone as well.

He had lost her. His last… his only…

"Morning, Dwalin!"

He spun around, wide-eyed, as Dís strode towards him, wrapped in a woollen shawl.

"What are you doing up here? At least put your boots on, bit cold to go barefoot today! Dwalin?"

Her voice rose in concern as Dwalin staggered and swayed alarmingly. Quickly, she closed the distance between them and grabbed his arm to steady him. Dwalin just stared at her.

"Dís," he finally rasped, "I though… I'm sorry… I shouldn't… I'm so sorry… I thought… I thought I'd lost you!"

Understanding dawned on her face.

"Oh, Dwalin! No! I was just over at Rúna's! No, Dwalin. Look, I'm here. I'm here now. Shh, Dwalin, I'm here. Breathe. No need to get yourself all worked up. I wouldn't, Dwalin. Not even now. I wouldn't. All good. All good, Dwalin."

She was here. She was healthy. She was alive. He had not lost her. Dís was still here.

Arm in arm they walked down to the house.


	7. Chapter 7

They took their breakfast in companionable silence. So different from the breakfasts Dís used to have around this table. Her boys squabbling, dreaming up some sort of competition for even such mundane things as buttering their bread, and Thorin bellowing for silence as he attempted to focus on his correspondence, to make plans for the day or simply to have a civilised adult conversation. Their living arrangement had come about by necessity rather than desire, but in the end they had been… a happy family of sorts. Dwalin did not need to be here with her, but Dís was glad that he had chosen to stay with her a little longer. She had had many meals on her own over the past months and it had never bothered her, but she knew that today would have been different. She was glad for Dwalin's company even if he was silent and sombre.

After breakfast, Dwalin went over to the house he occupied with his older brother to collect a clean set of clothes from his chest. He returned swiftly, wearing a fresh tunic and impressive furs that further accentuated his considerable size. His mood had been dark before, but now it had worsened considerably. He was glowering as he roughly threw his boots on the rug by the door and stalked into the lounge.

"Fools, all of them, damnable fools," he grumbled.

"Care to elaborate?" prompted Dís, but Dwalin took a moment before he replied, pacing briskly and baring his teeth in a snarl.

"All of them, all over the streets, can't take a step without treading on one of them. Have they got no work to do? All standing around and whispering, looking and pointing and… asking _questions!_ "

He spat the last word as if it was a particularly nasty insult. Dís raised her eyebrows and tried to insert a voice of reason.

"They _did_ just lose Thorin, and Fíli and Kíli too… and you _did_ just return after months and months, bearing news not only of their deaths, but of the reclamation of our lost kingdom… I believe they have a reason to be curious!"

Dwalin was not to be appeased. "Just the way they… I understand if they, you know… but it's not that… they want to _talk_ to me…it's like they think I'm some sort of _hero_!"

Dís almost rolled her eyes at that. Oh Dwalin… He had never shown any understanding for the magnitude of his deeds. Dwalin just followed, he obeyed commands and carried out orders. He just did what was needed and did not think anything of it. And he ended up being a better worker, a fiercer fighter than all of them without ever noticing. And a more loyal and caring friend she amended. He was that as well. And without ever realising just how good and how unusual he was.

"You did just kill a dragon…," she dared to point out.

"That was Bard's doing! We had no hand in that!"

"You defeated an army of orcs…"

"We were but one small band of dwarves among thousands!"

"You won back the treasure of our forefathers…"

"A small enough part of it! And it was dearly won… too dearly…"

Dwalin continued to mutter and snarl. To distract him from his scorn of the townsfolk who dared to admire his achievements, Dís enquired after his brother. Probably not her smartest move, she realised as Dwalin scoffed. " _Him!_ Slimy rat, Balin. Nasty little creature… He wants you to attend a _meeting!_ With him and the others from the company and with… _them. Today_! At noon!"

Dís sighed. "Of course he does. I was waiting for his invitation. There is much to discuss it seems…"

"But not now… not… you are still… You can't!"

"There are things I need to do."

"You need to rest, you need some peace!"

"Do you abandon your fellow warriors in battle when you receive a wound? No, you don't! And I won't either. I have no desire to attend this meeting today. But it is my _duty_."

That seemed to be a language he understood. He still groused, but his anger had dimmed.

"I'll come with you. I won't leave you to these… ink-twisters…"

"I was rather hoping you'd say that," Dís smiled. "Have a seat. I'll get ready. We leave in half an hour."

That would be early. But she predicted a slow journey through the town to the mountain, interrupted by many who wanted to commit the unfathomable crimes of speaking and asking questions. She would have to keep Dwalin on a short leash.

* * *

Dwalin hesitantly took a seat. Really, he only did it because his leg was still hurting him. Sitting down was a relief. He would be with Dís whatever the day brought. Nothing nice, for sure. He reckoned they would not just offer their condolences as would have been right and proper. Curse them all. Sometimes he wished he was living amongst hobbits. Polite little creatures, for all their shortcomings. Not dwarves. Certainly not those dwarves. They would want to talk politics. He just wished Dís would not have to do this. Wished she would not have to fight this battle. She was right. It was bound to be a battle. She should not have to fight it. He wished he could do it for her. He knew he could not. But he could at least be there with her. He knew that was important. Not being along. Facing an evil together. An evil like Balin and those Iron Hill dirt diggers.

His breath caught in his throat when she emerged from her chamber. She was dressed for battle. No armour, no weapons, but obviously ready to fight in her own way. Her garb was tailored of a heavy dark blue material, trimmed with the fur of a white wolf, fastened with a large belt of brushed steel. Her dark hair was flowing freely over her shoulders. A dwarrowdam she was, but the image of Durin nonetheless. She peered into the looking glass, gave a small nod of satisfaction and began to braid with nimble fingers. Just two simple braids, one on either side of her face. Thorin's braids.

He stood, watching her tie the braids. When she turned, he bowed.

"Lady Dís, I'm at your service."

"Don't tease Dwalin…"

"I'm not," he replied earnestly. "I wish to pledge my service to you."

She hesitated for a moment, but then smiled slightly and grabbed his arms.

"And I gladly accept it."

"And I… take these…"

He reached into the neck of his tunic and withdrew a thin leather cord he wore around his neck. From it he removed two hair clasps. No magnificent workmanship and slightly tarnished, but when he held them out to her, he knew he was offering a special treasure.

"Are these…? Oh… they are… They are Thorin's!"

Dís picked them up gently, caressing the metal. Dwalin hoped he was not causing further hurt. There had been other clasps, more fit for a king, in Erebor. Balin had chosen those for the funeral. But it did not feel right to leave these behind. Old and tarnished as they were, they had been with Thorin for a long time. Dwalin had kept them as a tangible memory of his friend, the just leader he had followed for so long, not the gold-crazed king. He had not planned this. But it felt right. These clasps belonged to Dís now.

She carefully fastened them to the end of her braids. She stood taller now.

Now there was a sight! The heir of Durin herself.

Not much remained of the shaking, crying dam he had held in his arms less than a day before. She looked so much like Thorin, a beardless, younger version of him. Seeing her like this, Dwalin silently renewed his pledge to the direct line of Durin. He would support her to whatever end, just as he had supported Thorin.

They left the house together. The sun shone from a brilliant blue sky onto the snow-covered town. Still too many dwarves with too little accommodation having been carved out of the mountain. It had been slow work and usually the manufacturing of trade goods had taken priority. Underground there might have been somewhere to hide. But here… here they were soon faced with the same curiosity he had encountered earlier that morning.

"May Mahal rest their spirits," called white-bearded Ai from across the road.[1] "I would have given all the remaining decades of my life for them to live!"

Dís thanked him politely.

Brothers Austri and Vestri were next, coming entirely too close for Dwalin's comfort, insisting on clasping arms with Dís. Fat merchants, gone soft over too much food and paperwork. He growled at them before they could think about getting any more familiar. But they paid him little heed and prattled on.

"Thorin, now there was a leader if ever there was one. And Fíli was shaping up so nicely, too. They showed so much wisdom! The Ered Luin has been so prosperous! Business has been good. Very good trade relations Thorin had forged. Such a good life for all of us… And now? Oh now, what will we do?"

"I assure you, Master Austri, that I am well-acquainted with the trade agreements. He would not risk the prosperity of our people and made the necessary arrangements before his quest. Thorin's death will not endanger your business. On the contrary. With the threat of the dragon eliminated, I hope to further develop our trade."

"Ah, it gladdens my heart to her that, Lady Dís. These are terrible times for all of us. We all feel Thorin's death! He will be much missed."

"He will be, Master Austri. But I will do my very best to continue to strengthen the interests of the Longbeards in the Ered Luin and beyond."

"Now that is more than good enough for me, my Lady. Just as canny as your brother, you are. A formidable trait of the line of Durin. May your beard grow swiftly!"

The next was a young dam with two small boys clinging to her coat. She actually had tears in her eyes when she expressed her condolences.

"I'm so sorry, Lady Dís, so sorry for your loss. We feel for you, all of us do. It will never be the same, not without them. It feels like every single hair of my beard is being torn out by its roots. I cannot even imagine how you must feel! They were the life of the Ered Luin. It will never be the same!"

She actually had the audacity to embrace Dís, causing Dwalin to step in. That earned him a stern look from Dís as the two little ones started to cry. Wimpy children. He had not even drawn his axes. No good could come of letting such over-familiarity pass. But Dís remained ever patient and polite.

"Oh what handsome boys you are! And growing ever taller. I think I can almost see the beginnings of a beard here, young warrior! I remember when my boys were your age. I'm sure you keep your mother busy."

"That they do! Ah, I hope they will grow up to be half as fine dwarves as your lads were. I remember Kíli bringing over the firewood for us last winter when Niping had been injured in that accident in the mines… Oh what will we all do now, without them?"

"Everybody will be well cared for. There is no reason to worry. We may have suffered a loss, but we are still a community."

"I know, Lady Dís. As long as we have you, we have nothing to fear. You have always been like a mother to us all."

And on it went. One after the other expressed their sadness and their fears, and Dís did her best to listen, to calm, and to help anybody who claimed he needed her to. Dwalin was growing more and more anxious with every conversation. Dís had reprimanded him for scaring people away with his glowering. Well, he'd be cursed if it had worked one bit. They kept coming up to bother Dís. Asking questions, telling their own stories, just generally making a nuisance of themselves. There were many stares, but at least no nosy comments about her lack of a beard. At least she did not have to face that. Nevertheless, he could see Dís' shoulders starting to sag before they ever reached the town square. He hovered even closed. He would not let these nitwits distress her even more.

A stocky, red-bearded young fellow was next. He seemed nervous and bowed deeply. At least somebody was remembering his manners.

"May Mahal grant their spirits rest! Please accept my condolences. May your beard grow ever… ehm… longer. Thorin… he was great. At the kingly things. I wish to be a warrior as great as him one day!"

"I thank you for your kind words, Gimli, son of Glóin."

"I wish I had been there," it burst out of the dwarrow. "I could have helped and then we… well, they wouldn't be dead now. I could have gone on that quest. I wanted to go with them, to be with Fíli and Kíli. They were like brothers to me. And I would have stayed with them in the battle, I would have defended them!"

The lad had no idea of the realities of war. He had not even been bloodied yet, if Dwalin remembered correctly.

"I appreciate your concern, Gimli. With time, you will get the chance to prove your worth."

He certainly would. Too many young dwarves had already died in battle, too many more would follow. The stupidity of the young who looked forward to their first kill and most likely ended up being killed instead.

"You have my axe! I will defend you!"

A ghost of a smile passed over Dís' face at that. "I'm sure that will not be necessary just yet, but I thank you for your loyalty."

"My father was always loyal to Thorin. We are the line of Durin and we stick together."

He gave Dwalin a nod that was probably supposed to show strength and understanding, but looked rather like a nervous twitch. Maybe he would become useful in the future, but for now he was an inexperienced and rather headstrong child. Dwalin wondered what would become of the lad. He only hoped he would not follow his friends too quickly. To battle, to glory, but in the end to nothing but their deaths.

Finally, they seemed to have crossed the sea of talkative dwarves. They exchanged one last look before Dwalin thrust open the stone doors of the great hall for Dís.

To battle. To glory. But hopefully not to more deaths.

* * *

[1] Names are taken from the Nordic sagas. Ai = great grandfather, Austri = East, Vestri = West, Niping = pinch


	8. Chapter 8

So this was it. Dwalin was opening the doors to the hall. Beyond those doors her future would be decided. A future that she would spend in the Ered Luin or in Erebor, as an ordinary widow or as Queen under the Mountain. Dís straightened her shoulders and drew herself up to her full height. She had no idea which of these paths she even wanted to tread. She could not yet fully grasp which options would even be available to her. But whatever was to happen in this meeting, she would not be cowed by an assortment of warriors and councillors. She would decide her own future.

Eight figures stood in the hall. When she entered, Balin was talking to Thorin, a nervous looking Ori at his side. Two dwarves in full armour were shadowing Thorin, undoubtedly the bodyguards Dáin had felt were necessary to mind his son. Glóin stood in a small group with the two other visitors from the Iron Hills, one very large, with a beard that rivalled Glóin's in its bushiness, the other elderly, almost frail looking with a white beard and moustache. Dís did not recognise them.

They turned around sharply at the intrusion. All eyes were on Dís. Appraising. She let them have a good look before she moved forward. Tall, dark-haired and blue-eyed she knew she looked the part of the heir of Durin. She had carefully chosen her clothes to accentuate her status as a member of the royal line, even though she had precious little interest in great formal robes and usually dressed no richer than any other dwarf, mainly concerned with the practicality of her garments. She was confident that she needed neither jewels nor weapons to show that she was not going to quietly crawl away and leave the fortunes of the Longbeards in the hands of whoever thought they had a right to be sitting on the throne or to be standing beside it. If this was to end in battle, it would not be one that could be won by axe, sword or bow.

"Ah, Lady Dís. It is truly good to see you."

Balin strode towards her. He was looking at her intently, concern in his eyes, searching for whatever it was he hoped to see in her – Strength or weakness? Defiance or resignation? Insanity maybe? Whatever it was, his tone was warm and polite. He too was robed in particularly fine garments. Dís was glad to see that she was not the only one who thought it an occasion worth dressing up for then. After all it was not only her future, but that of all the Longbeards, their allies and their enemies as well.

They clasped arms. "Welcome back to the Ered Luin, Balin. Thank you for coming in person."

"It is an honour. I just wish I would not have returned bearing such news."

Dís nodded in acknowledgement and agreement, but she quickly moved on. This was not a time to dwell on her grief. It had been difficult enough to face the mourning people out on the streets. She could not allow the emotion to well up here, where she was supposed to be strong, decisive and in control.

Balin introduced the visitors from the Iron Hills. She knew Thorin, of course, even though she had not seen him since he had been a small child. She had not been impressed with him then, a weak boy, too pampered to join in with her own sons' games, too aware of his status to want to play with children he considered to be of lower rank than him. If anything, she was less impressed with him now. His handshake was weak. Obviously, Dáin had not seen it fit for his precious princeling to spend time in the forge. His eyes were blue, but seemed unnaturally small in his featureless face. He looked disinterested and his tone was flat as he rattled off greetings from his parents and their condolences. It was obvious that he had been forced to memorise the words. He was richly dressed and his fingers had been squeezed into a multitude of heavy rings. Dís noted the fine workmanship of the ornamental breastplate he wore. He found herself musing that an armoured back might serve him better for he seemed unlikely to face a foe, but even less likely to be fast enough to run away.

Next in line was the elderly councillor, who went by the name of Svigur. He looked even frailer up close, probably quickly approaching his third century. It seemed a miracle that he had been able to brave the long journey through the wild in such inclement weather, but he looked quite hale. Svigur sported a truly magnificent white beard and moustache that were arranged in three sweeping curves on either side of his face, all combining and ending in a perfectly circular curl. His dark eyes were kind and full of warmth as they clasped arms. "It is the greatest pain to bury our own children. I would not wish this upon anyone," he said and something in his tone told Dís that he spoke from experience. A father who had had the misfortune of surviving his child. Svigur, son of Svidrir, a kindred spirit.[1]

Next in line was Hrungnir. Dís had to control her thoughts very carefully when she laid eyes upon him. Otherwise they would have turned to the sort of unhelpful and certainly not kind descriptions that she had always chided her boys for. But she certainly had to concede that Hrungnir had never known hunger. His girth truly was impressive. What little was visible of his face behind his bushy beard was red and there were pearls of sweat on his forehead. As soon as he introduced himself as the son of Motsognir, Dís knew that she would have to be careful around him. She had never seen him. She had never seen his father, but she certainly knew of him. A rich merchant whose greatest bargain had been the wedding of his daughter to Dáin Ironfoot. Hrungnir was here on a special mission and she would have to be careful not to make him her foe, for Thorin was his sister-son.

The two warriors, Ivladi and An, were quiet and polite. They bowed deeply, offering their services, and returned swiftly to their spots on either side of Thorin. They seemed to keep a wary eye on Dís, which made her aware of Dwalin, who had apparently appointed himself her own bodyguard and was hovering slightly behind her, no doubt glowering at the two warriors. A bodyguard was probably quite appropriate now that she was a contender for the throne of Erebor, but she would have to have a word with him about not intimidating those who could be her potential allies. While her brother had without doubt appreciated Dwalin's help in alienating all those around him, her approach to diplomacy was slightly different.

After introductions had been made, Dís also welcomed the remaining members of her brother's company. She had often worked with Glóin, yet another cousin, who was an excellent trader with an uncanny sense for finances. She suspected that he had returned to ensure that the transfer of assets from the Blue Mountains to Erebor would go smoothly. She was surprised, therefore, at the depth of emotion in the usually brusque dwarf's face when he offered his condolences. "No parent should have to bury their child," he grumbled and Dís could see him swallow hard. She was about to offer him the same rebuke she had given Dwalin the night before, but stopped herself when she realised why Fíli and Kíli's deaths had such a profoun effect on her. Gimli. His own son and close friend to the young Durins. Gimli, who had been devastated when Thorin would not allow him in his company. Gimli, whose youth might have rescued from meeting a fate similar to that of her own sons. She caught Glóin in a tight embrace. Parents did bury their children. They made those who did not have to suffer that fate uncomfortably aware of their privilege. Glóin might have returned to the Ered Luin to supervise the transfer of assets, but Dís now doubted that it was just gold and silver that he had in mind.

Last in line was Ori. He probably would not have approached Dís at all if Balin had not gently pushed him towards her. The young scribe reminded her of an oversized squirrel, his eyes wide, the slender body shaking with anticipation. It pained Dís to see him so nervous. She had been friends with his mother and had always been fond of her youngest. He was close in age to her own sons, but had only recently joined their circle of friends as Fíli had become more interested in academic subjects and made sure that the studious boy was no longer constantly at the receiving end of pranks. She made sure to welcome Ori back with particular warmth. He mumbled his greetings and offered his condolences. There was no doubting his sincerity, but his anxiousness was evident, as he shuffled his feet and tugged at the sleeves of his knitted jumper. With a squeeze of his arm, Dís released him, but he turned back at the last moment.

"It should have been me. I'm so sorry. They were all warriors, and I'm… I'm not… and it really should have been me who died. I'm sorry," Ori whispered so low she could hardly understand him. An alarming blush spread across his features.

"It's not always the best warriors who escape death, Ori," she said. "I for one am glad you did not die."

"But…," his voice was so high now, he sounded like a small child. "I should have… I'm not… your sons…"

"I grieve for them. And I would have grieved for you, Ori. You have no less to live for than they did."

Dís could tell her words were not making a difference. Ori slunk away defeated. One more name to add to the list of those who blamed themselves for Fíli and Kíli's deaths. She was relieved to see Dwalin put a hand on the young scribe's shoulder, even though Ori jumped in surprise.

After everyone had been welcomed, they settled down for a light lunch along the big table in the middle of the chamber. As there were only ten of them, they only occupied two sides, the parties from the Iron Hills and the Blue Mountains facing each other over the food presented to them. On the South side, Thorin occupied the middle, flanked by Svigur and Hrungnir, as his two guards took the outermost seats. Dís settled opposite him. On her right side sat Balin and next to him Glóin took his seat. On her left, Dwalin found his place before dragging Ori down on his other side. The armies were assembled, her diplomatic warriors all heroes of the reclamation of Erebor, but more importantly utterly loyal to her deceased brother. Dís could only hope that they would prove to be equally loyal to her.

They took their lunch mostly in silence. There were a few compliments on the food, but conversation did not come easily. A young boy was pouring tea for everyone, only to be brushed aside brusquely when he got to Thorin.

"Is there no proper ale in this molehill?"

The serving boy was startled and looked at Dís in alarm.

"It is not customary for us to consume ale before the start of a meeting," Dís replied with measured politeness. "But I can have some brought for you, if you desire."

Judging by the looks Svigur cast at his young charge, alcoholic beverages while discussing important matters were no more customary in the Iron Hills than they were in the Blue Mountains.

"You seem to think me a common miner," Thorin sneered. "I would have expected more from your hospitality than a piece of bread and a cup of chamomile."

Dís took a deep breath and smiled politely. It was a rather obvious attempt to irritate her and she would not give him that satisfaction. True, towards the end of winter their stores would often run low, but this year they had been doing well and the meal Rúna had prepared was more than nourishing enough with butter, cheese and ham, as well as some pickled vegetables to go along with the bread.

"Travellers are always made welcome here, no matter their occupation," she said. "Particularly when they are family members… _cousin_."

He scowled. "I can see why they wanted to escape this place. Even a dragon must be better than squatting in these hovels. Most of your people don't even live in the mountain!"

Hrungnir snorted in amusement and agreement at his nephew's outburst, but Dís found it difficult to control her anger. They had worked tirelessly for many decades to ensure everyone had a good life in the Ered Luin. She remembered this place as a collection of tents surrounding a mineshaft. This spoiled little snob had no right to discredit the achievements of her people!

"Now, now, laddie, there's no need…," Balin said, but Thorin interrupted him, hissing "You will address me properly!" Balin feigned deafness at that and concluded, "None of our current homes are Khazad-dûm, but hopefully we will soon be able to work together to restore to its former glory a home that should be fit for all of us – Erebor!"

And with that, it had been mentioned, the real reason they were all here together. Erebor, the Lonely Mountain. Matters of state were to be discussed, matters of succession. A succession that Dís dreaded.

The plates were cleared away and Dís sent away the boys who had been serving them. Then she requested a complete retelling of the events leading up to the reclamation of Erebor and from that point until the departure of the dwarves around her a few weeks ago. Dwalin had told her about some aspects, but she wanted to gain a full understanding of everything that had happened since her brother and his company had left the Ered Luin. Balin and Glóin took turns recounting their adventures, with Ori occasionally adding details. The longer they spoke, the more amazed Dís was that the company had ever managed to reach the mountain in time. Hobbits and wizards, trolls and spiders, orcs and wargs, woodelves and lakemen, so many creatures made an appearance in the tale and most of them seemed to harbour no friendly intentions towards Thorin Oakenshield and his quest. Dís listened intently, asking for clarification of some of the more intricate points. Much of the events seemed to be new to their visitors as well. Svigur was paying careful attention and raised questions at several points and while Hrungnir was not taking active part in the conversation, his eyes rarely left the speakers. Thorin on the other hand made no attempts to conceal his boredom, picking either his teeth or his fingernails.

The dwarves from the Iron Hills started contributing to the report very late, just before the retelling of the battle started. At least Dáin had headed Thorin's call for aid that time, unlike his refusal to support the quest when there was still a chance of a dragon guarding Erebor. Old alliances seemed to be less fickle when there was no dragon involved.

Once again, Dís heard about the battle, the death of her sons whose corpses were carried back to the mountain. The death of her brother who succumbed to his wounds shortly afterwards. Her already battered heart felt like it was being beaten on an anvil. To hear it all again amounted to torture. There were fewer details this time around, but the fact remained that this was the story of the end of her family. Even her brother had left her, after all these decades of facing the evil of this world together. All of this for a long abandoned mountain. All of them dead for this wretched crown.

"At least he was himself in the end. The dragon sickness had no power over him. He was at peace," Balin concluded.

"The madness had been upon him. The gold had driven him into insanity by the time we arrived. Just like Thráin and Thrór before him, he could not handle the power of the gold," Svigur said.

Dís could well imagine the rage with which Thorin would have greeted that assessment of his mental state. Alas, he was not here now, he had succumbed to the curse that lay on their line. Only his little sister was here. His little sister who could not feel whole without him by her side, who could not attempt to copy him. She was not Thorin. She had never been determined to reclaim their ancient homeland. She had no need of it, even less now that it had claimed the last of her family. But she would not let this pass without comment.

"In sickness or in health… he died King under the Mountain. I am glad of it!," she said. Might as well cut straight to the heart of this mountain. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. At some point she would have to face it, the question of the crown. "Who was left in charge of Erebor when you left the Mountain?"

"Dáin Ironfoot, as the commander of the dwarvish forces took over management of Erebor after Thorin's death," Balin said. Obviously. But she might as well state where Dáin's rightful place was for all that it was worth. Might as well see where alliances lay in this question of succession.

"I shall thank him for his service. I'm sure that Dáin makes a fine steward."

"Steward? How dare you, despicable dam?" Thorin shouted, but his voice was just about drowned out by Hrungnir thundering, "He's no steward! Dáin is King under the Mountain!"

Dís watched their rage with some amusement. Both had jumped up and their faces had turned red. Hrungnir was crashing his fist on to the table to accentuate his words. The two guards had jumped to attention at the sudden turn in the formerly sombre mood. Ori emitted a little astonished squeak. Dwalin stood as well, crossing his arms and towering over all those present.

"Calm yourselves," he snarled, "You are in the presence of a lady."

Dís was by no means uncomfortable. She just watched the scene unfold. It was incredible how much discontent one small word could bring after so much tiptoeing around the topic. Balin and Svigur attempted to calm the others.

"Now, lads, let are all just settle down. There is no need…"

"I will not have _her_ insult my father!"

"There was no insult intended…"

"How dare she!"

"Enough!," Dwalin roared in a voice Dís had only ever heard him use when he was breaking up a tavern brawl. Or a fight between her sons. "Sit!" They did so, albeit hesitantly, eventually shrinking under his fierce glance. Last of all, Dwalin resumed his seat and nodded towards his brother to continue. Balin cleared his throat.

"Of course Dáin cannot assume kingship by default. It would be against our most ancient laws. We have always considered the direct line of Durin first and foremost. However… in the aftermath of the battle, in the chaos that reigned and the confusion that Thorin's death had created… A council of elders in the dwarven forces dealt with the matter. We were concerned with keeping order in our own army and to maintain the links with our new allies. We judged it wise to not divulge the secrets of our rules of succession to outsiders. There has been no coronation and Dáin does not sit upon the throne, although he is called king at the moment. We were in need of a signal of stability and continuity to all those assembled at Erebor."

"Do not concern yourself with these matters unduly, Lady Dís," Svigur said, "It is merely a formality."

"A formality?" asked Dís sharply.

"Aye," said Svigur, producing a scroll from one of his wide sleeves. "All has been prepared. Your full statement indicating that you lay down all claim to the throne of Erebor, swear never to claim your birthright and gladly pass the crown to Dáin, son of Náin, for him and his line to rule from now on until the end of the race of dwarves. It is for the best of the Longbeards that you do not burden yourself with the crown, especially not in your current grief."

Dís looked at him and the parchment he held in astonishment. She had expected a fight, a battle of wits and words, but she had not expected to be presented with her own abdication in quite so brusque a manner. Had not expected to have the words written out for her as if she was a child. That seemed to show little regard for her as a person, or, for that matter, for the direct line of Durin. They seemed to simply expect her to meekly go along with whatever fate their council had decided for her. This was confirmed when Svigur put quill and inkwell in front of her.

"Simply sign here, if you would, please," he instructed, bowing politely and pointing at the space at the bottom of the scroll. Balin and Svigur had already signed as witnesses.

Dís took a breath to steady herself, then looked up at the old dwarf across from her. His smile was kind and genuine, but withered under her glare. Next to him, Thorin was gloating openly, his teeth bared in a wide grin. Hrungnir was leaning back in his chair, smiling, hands folded atop his bulging middle. The guards at least had the courtesy to look slightly on edge. Letting her gaze drift to those on her own side of the table, she encountered a terrified looking Ori next to a furious Dwalin who appeared to have crushed his mug between his fingers, every muscle taunt and ready for whatever fight he might imagine there could be. On her far right, Glóin's eyes were fixed on her, imploringly. Last, she looked at Balin, her cousin, and undersigned witness of her abdication. He at least had the good grace to look somewhat embarrassed as he lowered his head and spoke softly.

"Please, Dís. Just sign it, lass."

She let her eyes wander around the table again and then stood, grasping the quill. She watched Thorin lean forwards eagerly while the older dwarves relaxed in their seats.

"No," she said, snapping the quill between her fingers and watching their eyes widen. "I will not. I will not sign anything until I am convinced that it is for the best of our people."

* * *

[1]Dwarf names, once again, are all Nordic names keeping with Tolkien's tradition. Svigur = wise, Svidrir = calmer, Motsognir = battle roarer, Hrungnir = brawler, Ivladi = bowman, An = sword


	9. Chapter 9

Dís was as hard as diamond. Dwalin had witnessed her skills at negotiation many times, whether those negotiations were with trade envoys or with her own sons. He knew that she would handle these talks about the line of succession to the throne of Erebor well, even taking into consideration her current distress. The only one who had come close to matching her skill and might have surpassed her eventually, had been Fíli who possessed the same combination of a quick wit, stubbornness and a golden tongue. Balin at least should have remembered that. There was no way that this collection of doddering fools could talk Dís into resigning her birthright, her right to the throne of Erebor that her brother and sons had just reclaimed.

With the actual talking being done by those more skilled at it, Dwalin had focussed on the things that he knew about and was good at. He had often discussed security with Thorin and had been hired by many a rich merchant for the same purposes. He could certainly make sure that Dís was physically safe.

Their party occupied the most strategically advantageous position with an unobstructed path to retreat in case that became necessary. He knew that he would have no trouble defending Dís once they got out of the room. Most dwarves in the Ered Luin were loyal to her, her sensible leadership and approachable nature making her a favourite even with those who had had their differences with the dour Thorin. Dwalin had also made sure that some trusted friends were stationed just outside the door of the council chamber. In case of hostilities, he only had to make sure she would get through that door.

There were five on each side of the table, but that did not mean that they were evenly matched. From what Dwalin had seen on the trek back from Erebor, Thorin was neither well-trained nor particularly skilful, but he was unpredictable, making him a danger. His uncle Hrungnir had a similar temperament, and while he was hindered by his enormous girth, he would be difficult to contain without bloodshed. Svigur was an interesting case… he might look frail, but Dwalin had seen him brave the dangers of the road with surprising endurance. He seemed to be one to grow tougher with age, as many dwarves were wont to do. His polished manners would keep him from provoking an attack, but in Dwalin’s experience, such old warriors were all too eager to join the fray once somebody had charged ahead. Ivladi and An were both battle-hardened and loyal to Dáin and by extension to his son, though Dwalin himself could not see much in the boy that would inspire loyalty. On the other side of the table, there was Ori whom he was absolutely sure of. The lad had acquitted himself well on the battlefield, possessing just as much strength as his oldest brother, and most importantly, he was devoted to Dís, even more so now that he carried such huge guilt over her sons death. Yes, Dwalin could rely on Ori. Glóin’s loyalties on the other hand had always been determined by economic advantage and currently he obviously saw that with the Iron Hill dwarves. He might at least possess the dignity to not openly attack his former leader’s sister. If they had all possessed placid elven tempers, Dwalin might have counted on that, but they were dwarves and there was no telling how quickly the situation could spiral out of control.

As it was, it only took a sharp word to break up the first open confrontation and everybody sat back down again like good little dwarflings. Then again, they had barely reached the contentious topics at that point. If it really came to physical conflict today, he would have to rely on Ori to escort Dís to safety while he held back the others. A barely bearded scribe and an old cripple, they made a fine pair. Not much of a guard for royalty. But most upsetting was the idea of having to confront his own brother. His loyalty to Dís would not waver, but Balin was his older brother and he had followed him for as long as he could remember.

When Svigur pulled out the contract detailing Dís’ abdication, Dwalin felt anger rise in his chest. It was increasing slowly, his muscles tensing and his fingers shaking with the effort to remain calm. Then he saw Balin’s signature on the contract. Balin. The traitor!

Warm tea was spilling over his fingers and a shard of pottery cut into his palm. The mug he had been clutching had obviously been unable to withstand the pressure of his fingers any longer. Dís declared that she would not renounce the throne and there was a shocked silence. Dwalin knew that he should be paying attention, but he could only stare at Balin. His brother had betrayed Dís, their cousin, Thorin’s sister and the only remaining direct descendent of Durin. Of course he had known that Balin favoured Dáin on the throne, but to go about it in such a way… That was betrayal. Dwalin could not believe it.

His brother had been his hero from earliest childhood onwards. Balin had taught him all about honesty and duty and kindness, had always stressed that there were right and wrong ways to go about achieving something. It did not take a genius to see that what Balin was doing was wrong. He did not only conspire with those dirt diggers, he also put Dís under such pressure when she was already suffering. Only last night she had learned of her sons deaths! It was a disgrace to treat her like this.

Balin had not forgotten about Dís’ skill as a negotiator after all. He had just not planned on giving her anything to negotiate. Catch her at her most vulnerable. Catch her exhausted and grieving and in pain. Put a contract in front of her. Make her sign it. Hightail it back to Dáin. That had probably even been his intention the previous night when Dwalin had prevented him from talking to Dís.

Dwalin snarled at his brother who was now trying to acquiesce Dís. He had an intense desire to punch him, but that would probably not help matters in the long run, nor resolve this farce of a negotiation. Dís on the other hand was remarkably composed. She all but ignored Balin as she looked around the table, blue eyes blazing.

They all stared at her. Hrungnir recovered his wits first.

“What our people need is a strong leader,” he declared.

“And you think Dáin is a stronger leader than me?” Dís shot back.

“Dáin has fought for Erebor. He has bled for that mountain. What have you done while he won what you now want to claim as your kingdom?”

“I was protecting her people,” Dís said, voice sharp and eyes blazing. “I was in the Ered Luin by orders of the leader of our people, Thorin Oakenshield. We have not had an easy winter here either. Orcs and wolves ranged far and wide this year and we had more than our fair share to contend with here.”

“The fact remains though,” Hrungnir continued unmoved by her words. “You did not join the quest to reclaim Erebor.”

He leaned back in his chair contentedly like he had just single-handedly concluded the debate.

Dwalin was torn between rage and concern. He knew that Dís was more than capable of holding her own in any meeting and that she was also a strong leader who would have dispatched of any enemies unlucky enough to target the Ered Luin with deathly efficiency, but still he cared deeply for her. Especially now that she was the last one left of the line he had sworn to protect.

“My sons did. My sons gave their all on that quest,” Dís said quietly, but in a voice that was as piercing as an iron-forged blade. “From what I have heard, Dáin only joined my brother once the dragon had been slain and the mountain reclaimed.”

Hrungnir huffed at that, but Svigur cut across him before he could say a word.

“We honour your sacrifice, Lady Dís,” he said.

Dwalin could feel Dís inflate her lungs next to him, but she kept quiet. He longed to take her hand or offer her comfort in some other way. No sacrifice. She had not sacrificed them. Would never have sacrificed them for anything, least of all for a pile of gold. Gold was worth nothing compared to the lives of Fíli and Kíli.

“I acknowledge your superior right to the throne,” Svigur continued, which made Thorin bluster in indignation, but he was ignored by all around him. “You are of the direct line of Durin where Dáin is not. But I urge you to keep the long-term interests of our people in mind. A newly reclaimed kingdom is vulnerable. Already there are those who claim shares of the treasure and come spring, word about the recovered wealth will spread all the quicker and the hordes of beggars and postulants will only increase. We have a shared concern for the stability of Erebor.”

There were appreciative murmurs at that from both sides of the table.

“We do not want more war,” Dwalin heard Ori mutter next to him. The lad shivered at the mere thought of fighting and Dwalin put a comforting hand on his arm. Ori would not have to see another battle. He would live out his days in peace and comfort with his books and quills. Ori would not face combat again. Not while Dwalin lived to prevent it.

“We need to protect what we have won,” Glóin spoke up. “With all my respect for you, your brother and your sons, Dís, I would not council you to take on the role of the ruler. I appreciate your leadership and your wisdom in economic matters, but what Erebor needs right now is a warrior king. One who will crush the threats to the Mountain. Those elves… I dare not trust them…”

“I appreciate your council, cousin,” Dís said sounding anything but appreciative. “I will not lead a host into battle, I give you that. But I disagree that warfare is the only way forward for the Longbeards. Our future lies in alliances rather than outright battle. We defend what is ours with coin and pen, speech and sword, and for that Erebor needs a leader with skills beyond mere fighting. I see no dearth of generals upon us after the great deeds that were undoubtedly done in the recent battle. A strong leader is one who knows how to negotiate.”

The debate went back and forth for a long time. Balin and Svigur were arguing for long-term interests. Glóin was concerned with defending their new-found prosperity and claimed that Dís should be sheltered and protected in her role as a treasured princess. That appeared to strike a chord with young Thorin who seemed to have half a mind to say a thing or two about dams, but was quickly silenced by his councillors. Ori cited examples of female leaders that had shown themselves to be every bit as capable as their male counterparts. They debated the merits of Dáin versus those of Dís. Their potential leadership styles. Their credentials. Their skill in politics and battle. It all came back to stability. Stability for Erebor. Stability for their people. Dwalin did not even have to look at Thorin, who had shown himself to be a spoiled brat on their shared journey, to know that he needed a firm hand and a good example to follow to enable him to eventually provide said stability.

“The direct line of Durin needs to prevail,” Dwalin asserted. He did not often speak in council, but usually folk listened to him when he did. One advantage of a commanding physical presence.

“Ha, but how would it?” Hrungnir questioned. “We have here in front of us the living proof that the line lies secure with Dáin and his son. Dís has no more sons! The direct line of Durin has come to an end!”

“Her reign, though certainly prosperous would only lead to Dáin’s or Thorin’s eventual kingship,” Balin supported that point of view. “I see no reason to introduce that element of upset and uncertainty now that Dáin is already as good as ruling in Erebor.”

“Much can be achieved in one reign. Thorin would not…” Dwalin started out, but Dís interrupted him.

“Who says Thorin would follow me on the throne?” she asked, looking around the table, challenging, almost smirking down at them. Dwalin was caught unawares. So was everybody else judging by the clearly astonished and confused looks on their faces.

“You have no more heirs,” Balin remarked cautiously.

Dís anger flared up for all to see. “I owe it to the heirs I have lost to keep this throne within our line. The deaths of my family have not been in vain!” she shouted.

“But you can’t…”

“Oh, I’m touched by your concern for the inner workings of my body,” Dís spat at him, voice ripe with sarcasm. “But I am glad to assure you that all is in perfect order and good health. I still retain the ability to provide the line of Durin with an heir that is as close as possible to the direct line.”

Silence fell. Balin’s cheeks coloured. Dwalin knew his brother did not usually have such conversations. This was probably the most explicit talk he had had ever since the excruciatingly painful explanation he had given a young Dwalin about the hammer and anvil used to forge little dwarflings.

“Dwarves love only once,” Balin said gently. “Your husband is dead, Dís.”

Like she did not know that. Balin had to bring up even the last of her dead family members. Dwalin did not understand what she was insinuating, but he knew she was being hurt here. She was grieving. She needed rest. She needed space and time to grieve. They were not giving her that. He had to get her out of this room.

“I have not forgotten that, Balin,” she answered. “Where there is necessity, a way can be found.”

There were audible gasps from the assembled dwarves.

“You would break with all tradition to do what is best for you,” Hrungnir thundered.

“Actually, there is precedent for this,” Ori piped up, but nobody was listening to him.

“I will do what is best for my people,” Dís said icily and stood. “You have not convinced me that Dáin can provide that.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, No Sacrifice is back! It's been a long hiatus. I could quite truthfully blame moving to a different city and starting a new job, as well as writing a flurry of fics for the Feels for Fíli campaign. However, the real reason was that I was mentally wrestling with the plot. It has taken me months to work through the storyline of this fic. My true headcanon for Dís in this scenario is too sad to be written down. I wanted to give her something better… and was tempted to let her settle down and live happily ever after as a magnificent Queen under the Mountain. Cue rainbows and unicorns. Which would not have been a very good or believable story. So I have had this big mental wrestling match with No Sacrifice. Which after much research and many attempts at sketching out storylines has now finally resulted in a new and improved plot. The plot is all mapped out (big excel sheet once again), and shall be written as quickly as real life allows. Please read and review, it makes me very happy and is guaranteed to shape this story further!

Dís was fuming. Who did those fools think they were? Not for the first time she wished she had been born a male. No man would have to defend himself like this. No man would be questioned in such a manner. Had she been born a male, the third son of Thráin, she would be the undisputed King under the Mountain now. There would have been honour in her role as protector of the Ered Luin. Instead they were looking down on her. She would not suffer it.

They stared at her, open-mouthed, as she stood and turned. Dwalin’s reflexes had slowed considerably. He was still struggling to get to his feet by the time Dís reached the exit. She pushed the great stone door open on her own. Let them see her strength.

Those on the outside scurried away too quickly to not look suspicious. Let them listen. Let them hear. Let them gossip. Dís did not care.

She strode through the entrance hall and the crowd dispersed in front of her. Dwalin was at her side by the time she reached the outside of the mountain. He did not say a word, but from the way people retreated she could tell he was snarling at them. Oh yes, because she was unable to make her own way through the town she had managed in her brother’s absence. Because she was a weak little woman who needed protection as soon as she left her kitchen. Dís walked briskly. She wanted to get home. Have some space. Not that Dwalin seemed inclined to give her that. He was right next to her. His things were still in Thorin’s chamber. She would have no peace from him any time soon.

As they reached the turnoff to Thorin’s house – my house, Dís reminded herself – Balin caught up with them. Dís stopped and turned to face him. He was wringing his hands. He performed a low bow.

“May I ask your permission to accompany you home,” he asked very formally.

Dís did not even get an opportunity to reply. Dwalin was in front of her immediately and looked about ready to throttle his brother.

“Haven’t you caused enough damage today?” he growled. “Get out of her sight. She doesn’t want you here – _Traitor_!”

Balin seemed to erode in front of her eyes.

“ _She_ can very well decide that on her own,” Dís hissed. “I would indeed like to speak with you, Balin.”

She opened the door and was about to step inside. Balin bowed again, but Dwalin grabbed him by the front of his coat, towering above his older brother.

“You mind your tongue. One word to upset her and I shall…”

“Stop it, Dwalin,” Dís said sharply. “I think I can handle a conversation with Balin on my own.”

“He put his signature under that contract. What more is there to talk about? He is a traitor, Dís!”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“I’ll be right here and if he as much as…”

“You should go home,” Dís declared. She had had enough of this.

“What?” Dwalin asked dumbfounded, taking a step back.

“Go home,” Dís repeated. “Rest for a while.”

In an instant, Dwalin was in Balin’s face again. “I will not leave you alone with this dirty traitor,” he snarled. He made to step into the house, but Dís stood her ground, bracing her hands against the frame of the door. She had endured the fights between her brothers and later those between her sons, she was not going to have her cousins behave like this in her house.

“Out!” she said. “If you cannot stop acting like a rabid dog, please keep your distance.”

Dwalin staggered backwards as if she had hit him across the face. His eyes were wide, but he retreated without a word. She almost regretted her harsh words as she ushered Balin inside. From the window she watched Dwalin slowly lumber back down to the road.

“I envy him for the simplicity of his world,” she sighed. “He sees only black and white. He supports the good and fights the evil.”

“His choices are simple and he never strays from the right path,” Balin said with a small smile. “Unlike me, it appears.”

Dís did not answer. She busied herself brewing a strong tea. When they sat across the table from each other, Balin spoke again.

“Do not take me for a monster,” he said. “I want to protect you no less than Dwalin does.”

Dís said nothing, just slightly lowered her head to indicate that she was listening. She was nowhere near as irate at Balin as his brother clearly was, nor did she necessarily think of him as a traitor, but she could not endorse his actions or even begin to understand them.

“Spare yourself the agony and fight, Dís,” Balin continued gently. “Leave that to the warriors. You have fought long and hard enough.”

Dís still did not speak. Let him present his reasoning. Balin was no fool. She wanted to know why he thought this was the right course of action.

“You have lost so much, lassie,” Balin said. “It is time for you to enjoy what has been won. You can lead a comfortable life away from the crown. You’ll be a princess of Erebor just as you were meant to be…”

Balin trailed off. Dís looked down at him. He seemed older and smaller than she remembered. A princess of Erebor just as she was meant to be. Dís had only faint memories of Erebor. In fact, she was not sure if they were memories at all and not merely the images that Thorin’s tales had conjured in her mind. Balin made it sound like she could just go back to being the child she had been back then, before the dragon came, before any of this had happened. A lifetime lay between that time and the present day. A lifetime full of death and despair, but also full of successes, of happiness and love.

“I’m no princess any more,” Dís said slowly.

“You can be, lassie. You have been like a sister to me for all these years. I would like to see you… comfortable, as comfortable as you can be,” Balin replied. “Do not burden yourself unduly.”

Dís remained silent for a while.

“I can see the value of your council,” she finally admitted. “But I would like to make my own decisions.”

Something in Balin’s eyes seemed to break at her words and he glanced at her sadly. He did not reply, did not argue his point any further. For that, Dís was thankful. She was lost in thought as they continued to sip their tea.

“Was Ori right?” she finally asked, startling Balin.

“You heard him?”

Dís nodded solemnly. There is precedent for this. She had not even considered the full implications of her suggestion. Had only seen it as her duty to ensure that her sons had not died in vain.

“Yes,” Balin said hesitantly. “Ori has a remarkably good knowledge of even our most obscure laws… remarriage is possible if certain conditions are met.”

“Which conditions?”

“Seven times seven years of mourning have passed.”

“I have been a widow for more than six decades now…”

Such a long time had passed and the pain was still so present. Oh how she longed for a pair of strong arms to hold her, for her husband to comfort her and support her.

“There is no heir to carry on the line…”

No heir. She had born two beautiful heirs. Her sons. The mithril of her heart. No heirs. Not any more.

“Precisely our problem,” she said, trying to keep her voice even and emotionless.

“Furthermore, the dwarf in question has to… umm… retain the ability to procreate.”

Dís nodded and Balin hurried on quickly.

“Only one of the partners has previously been married.”

“That should be easy enough,” Dís replied. There were some advantages to being one of only so few women among her people. There was certainly no lack of eligible bachelors in the Ered Luin.

“Moreover, the marriage is entered into merely for reasons of procreation and terminates when that possibility no longer exists,” Balin stated.

Dís nodded her assent. That was only fair. She had been with her One, had known that pleasure. A second marriage would only exist to enable her to provide an heir for the throne of Erebor.

“Finally,” Balin continued his seemingly endless list of conditions of dwarven remarriage. “Any children born in such a union will be attributed to the first marriage. As Dwarves we are not as fleeting in our affections as Men are. We only love once, and that love is not extinguished with death. None of the seven fathers had more than one mate after all.”

“I found my One a long time ago,” Dís confirmed. “I should be honoured to bear him a third son.”

A third son after the first two had joined their father in the Halls of Waiting. Too soon… Too soon for all of them. Dís found herself longing to join them, to be with those she loved and not here, alone and beleaguered from all sides. She wanted to embrace her sons again. Fíli, so responsible and wise beyond his years, so concerned for his brother’s well-being and for all those around him. Kíli, always cheerful and cheeky, a ray of sunshine even in the darkest of times and devoted to his brother and uncle, his greatest heroes. Her wonderful sons who had been taken from her way too soon.

“Do you want that crown?” Balin interrupted her thoughts.

Dís looked at him, long and hard. She felt her eyes sting with unshed tears, but when she spoke her voice was strong and did not waver.

“I want my sons. And since I cannot have them back, I have to do the best I can to honour their memory. They died defending Thorin as the King under the Mountain. It is my responsibility to ensure that their deaths have not been in vain.”

Balin had nothing to say to that, but Dís saw that his eyes were also glistening with moisture. They sat in silence. They had spent just as many years together, in Erebor, on the road, in Dunland and finally here in the Ered Luin, but a silence with Balin was much less comfortable than the silences with Dwalin had been the previous night. They had all been close, but her relationship with Dwalin had been different. She was starting to regret that she had sent him away so ruthlessly before. He had looked so dejected. He did not seem to be himself, still an imposing figure, but somehow diminished from the strapping warrior who had left their settlement the previous year. He was slower than she remembered. And there were the dreams. Dís shuddered at the memory of the previous night. There were demons haunting her dear friend, but she had sent him away, despite his attempts to take care of her as best he knew how.

“What is wrong with Dwalin?” she finally asked.

Balin sighed deeply and stroked a hand over his brow. When he looked at her again, she saw a deep unease etched onto his drawn face.

“What is not wrong with Dwalin?” he said flatly. “His mind is just as unstable as his body.”

Dís frowned in trepidation.

“I can see the wounds to his soul,” she said. “But what physical injuries?”

Balin attempted to speak, but his voice broke and he faltered several times. He worried his lower lip between his teeth. Dís reached out to touch his hand that lay uselessly on the table. As much as his actions and words had upset her, he was still her cousin and her friend, and he was clearly distressed. She gently stroked his fingers and felt him relax ever so slightly. They were all on edge for one reason or another, it seemed.

“I thought I had lost him,” Balin finally whispered as if saying them softly made the words easier to bear. “It was dreadful. He was mauled by a whole pack of wargs. There was a reason he was not by Thorin’s side when he fell... From what little I saw, I doubted he would ever be on his feet again, but he made it for the lads…”

Balin was crying now and Dís also felt tears slide down her bare cheeks.

“He laid them in their tomb and collapsed,” Balin continued his sad tale interrupted by many pauses in which he attempted to compose himself or to suppress a sob. “We discovered the festering wounds… his leg was torn to shreds and his side… anyone else would have died days ago... Óin gave me little hope that he would live, said they would have to amputate and even then… I begged Thranduil for a healer myself... The elves cut him open and patched him back together… he slept for a week afterwards… I thought I had lost him… He survived, by some miracle, but he is weak. The journey here was taxing for him… He won’t admit it openly, but he is in great pain.”

He had not shown it. In all those hours they had spent together, he had never once shown his pain. It made sense now, thinking back. He had stumbled. He had been slower than usual. He had been so tense, so quick to anger. But he had also held her, had supported her, and had come after her. He had not let on that he had been wounded, wounded so badly that Balin thought it a miracle he survived. The only thing Dís had seen was the battle dreams… the shouting in the night when Dwalin’s guard had slipped.

“That is not all there is to this story,” she coaxed gently. “What happened to his spirit?”

“Oh Dís…” Balin sighed, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief. “I have not always been a good brother… he followed Thorin more than me. Now Thorin is gone, he is leaderless and confused.”

Dís contemplated that.

“It is more than confusion though,” she finally said. “He was at your throat in an instant just now. And I heard him, last night… he has battle dreams, Balin.”

Balin covered his eyes with his hand. When he looked at her again there was a deep sadness in his glance.

“I’m sorry you had to experience that, Dís. Yesterday of all nights,” he said. “I feel his pain, but he just causes more hurt with the way he acts.”

Dís frowned. Something in his tone told her that Balin had clipped his sentence short. That there was more to his exasperation with his brother. While Balin had always been overly concerned with etiquette and decorum, he was also, in his own way, very protective of Dwalin, which was not visible to everyone, but had always been evident to those close to them. His apparent callousness now spoke of a more fundamental issue.

“This is not the first time…” Dís prompted.

“These are old memories,” Balin confirmed, looking tired. “The battle… not this one, Azanulbizar, it unhinged him.”

Of course Dís had heard. Some were calling Dwalin crazy for the rages he suffered. But she had never given any credit to such talk. Those were Durin tempers. She knew him as a stalwart supporter of Thorin, a loyal friend to herself and a devoted guardian to her sons. She had seen him return after Azanulbizar, a grim determination in his eyes, but there had been so much sadness and despair back then. There had been no time for questions or comfort.

“What did he see at Azanulbizar?” she asked quietly.

“He did not see any more than all the rest of us, less, if anything,” Balin said. “He was very young. Most of the time he just helped Gróin with the wounded. After the final battle I found him bent over Fundin. He had had his throat cut. A mercy really because his abdomen was slashed, it would have been a slow and gruesome death otherwise.”

They had lost so many. Her brother Frerin and Balin’s father Fundin were only two among thousands of fallen warriors. But they had gone on. Had had no choice but to continue. They built a new homeland for themselves, they established businesses and trade routes, and they lived in relative peace. Azanulbizar was rarely talked about, the pain too fundamental, too unbearable to be spoken.

“All that was left for us was to follow Thorin. Now he has lost that as well,” Balin continued. “I fear for Dwalin. I have never seen him that distressed, not even after Azanulbizar. It is different now. He has lost control of himself. He is hurt in his body and his spirit, and I do not know how to heal either. He has all the gold in the world now, but it does not seem to do him any good.”

She knew that feeling all too well. No gold would ever come close to soothing the pain that the latest battle had caused. But Dwalin was not burdened by an uncertain future, and most importantly, he was not alone.

“Maybe a brother would do him some good,” Dís said. “Make your amends, Balin. Don’t let him ignore his wounds again.”

Balin smiled at her through the tears that still glittered in his eyes.

“Thank you Dís,” he said. “You show me kindness even though you must be furious with me.”

“Not furious,” Dís said. “I just don’t understand your reasoning. Why do you not want me to follow Thorin onto the throne?”

“I do not doubt your ability, lass. I merely question your ambition.”

“Is it such blind ambition to want to be who I should be by birth and by right?”

“What is Erebor to you?” Balin asked back. “A long-lost home? A hoard of treasure? A more glamorous future than what the Ered Luin can offer? I cannot see that in you, Dís. None of these things mean that much to you. You would never have sacrificed your sons for Erebor. Why are you so eager to sacrifice yourself?”

“I cannot see it at the moment,” Dís admitted. “But there must have been something, something that made it worth it for them. Fíli and Kíli were fighting for something. And it is my responsibility to keep fighting for whatever it was. I owe that to my sons.”

“I appreciate that,” Balin conceded. “Think about it though, the throne might not be the best position for you to fight from. There are many other roles you could play. You never ruled in the Ered Luin either, but we both know that your mark was on every decision Thorin made. The debate you faced today will be nothing compared to the chaos that would erupt if you indeed ascended to the throne. It would hurt you and destabilise the Longbeards. Our people need to be united; we cannot risk discontent and infighting. Unity will ensure our place in this world. A strong king will lead us on to greater and better things, maybe even lead us to reclaim Moria…”

“Do you see that in Thorin?” Dís asked sharply, interrupting his speech.

They both knew the answer to that.


	11. Chapter 11

They were to leave for Erebor the day after tomorrow. Or maybe it was already tomorrow at this point. Dwalin had lost track of time. It had been less than a year since he had left for Erebor. Less than a year since he had ridden West on a quest with Thorin and his small company. Less than a year, but in that year, everything seemed to have changed. So much had happened. The wizard, the Hobbit, the trolls, the goblins, the skin-changer, the spiders, the Elves, the Lakemen, the dragon, Dáin, Thorin, Fíli, Kíli… so many faces, so many pieces welded into a complex pattern. Such blades were old. Not evenly coloured and shining like most, they had a pattern like flowing water, making the steel look mottled. The art of forging such steel had been lost long ago and few such blades now survived. Yet their toughness and sharpness was still sung about and recounted in hushed voices among the warriors. Inadvertently, they had managed to forge such a sword as they went on their quest. Their adventures had been forged into a tough sword with an edge so sharp it was cutting through Dwalin’s very thoughts, dissecting them cruelly, piercing his mind with perturbing accuracy.

It was still very early in the year to be making the journey across the mountains once more. If it had not been for the urgency of the question of succession, they would have waited for spring to arrive. Most of those who had decided to settle in Erebor would follow in warmer weather, but Dís had insisted on setting out as soon as possible so she could speak with Dáin in person. They would travel in a small group, unburdened by unnecessary luggage, and mounted on swift ponies. It would still be a hard journey, particularly so soon after the last one. There was still snow on the hills and the ground was frozen.

Dwalin stumbled. He managed to stay upright, but clutched his side with a groan. It felt like that warg still had its teeth in him. He stood, gulping down deep breaths of the cold night air, waiting for the pain to dull. His knees buckled and he leaned heavily against a low drystone wall, which once again jarred his wounds. He closed his eyes, trying to focus all of his willpower on forcing his body into submission.

He heard quick footsteps coming down the lane. Too light for one of the guards. Dwalin tried to be quiet, to melt into the shadow, to not attract any attention. His head swam and he felt unable to even open his eyes. The footsteps stopped in front of him.

“Dwalin?”

Not her! Dwalin suppressed a groan. Not that voice. Not Dís. He had been avoiding her outside of the official meetings ever since she had sent him home the day after their arrival. It was understandable that she did not want to see him.

“Dwalin, are you unwell?” she enquired.

With a minute shake of his head, Dwalin opened his eyes. Dís was standing right in front of him.

“’m fine,” he mumbled.

“Certainly,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “You also smell like you have bathed in a whisky still.”

“’m fine,” he insisted, pushing himself off the wall and barely suppressing another groan. Dís’ hands were on his arm as soon as his leg crumbled, keeping him from falling like an eroding mountainside.

“Let’s get you home,” she said resolutely, attempting to drape his arm over her shoulders. Dwalin resisted.

“No, want to stay outside.”

“Don’t be silly, you’ll catch your death in this cold. What you need is a warm bed and a good sleep.”

“No. Not… Balin… not like this.”

“Oh, now, don’t be coy, he’s seen you in this state before!”

“Is not that, is…,” Dwalin started, then blinked, trying to clear his head. Even to his own ears his words sounded slurred. “He tries so hard to make sure I’m good and I…”

He gestured up and down his body without a clear aim. “Ashamed,” he finally muttered.

“Ah, come on then, back to mine it is,” Dís declared resolutely. She once again attempted to shoulder much of Dwalin’s weight. He tried to resist, but knew it was no use. Barely a hand shorter than Thorin had been and handy in the forge, she was more than capable of lugging him along. And he knew he was in no state to be spending the night out in the cold.

He was breathing heavily by the time they reached the house and nearly fell when Dís manoeuvred him through the door. His field of vision had shrunk considerably; everything that was not directly in front of him was fading to black. Every movement or turn of the head only seemed to reach his eyes with a slight delay, making it difficult to focus on anything. His battle-scars burned. Then his legs would not carry him any more. He clutched the heavy iron stove like a climber about to drop from a cliff face. Stay upright. Stay conscious.

Dís had him. She gently loosened his death grip on the stove. Then she half carried, half dragged him into the lounge and deposited him onto the sofa. Breathe. Stay conscious. Focus. Focus on breathing. He worked on calming his heart. Inhale. Focus. Exhale. Calm. It was what he did before a battle. Stay calm. Stay focussed. Stay alive.

Dís carefully handed him some water. He clutched the cup with both hands. Shaking. Cold water. Drink slowly. Breathe. Cold water trickled slowly down his throat. A good feeling, grounding him, focussing his thoughts on the present. He was here. He was alive.

“Do you want something to eat?”

He shook his head no. The water was good. But no food. Too much.

Dís lowered herself into a crouch in front of him. She wavered slightly, grasping his knee for support. Dwalin clenched his jaw, but his breath escaped through his teeth with a hiss. Pain. The cup clattered to the floor. So much pain.

“Dwalin,” Dís shouted, concern in her voice. She was standing again. He could hear her, but he could not see her although his eyes were open. “Stay with me now.”

He was trying. But there was pain and she seemed to be far away. So much pain. So far away.

“Let’s get you lying down.”

She lifted his legs, turning him, supporting his body. Pain. No boots on the furniture. Leave your muddy boots outside. Pain. Gentle hands on his back, on his shoulders. Gentle words in his ears. Sinking into the softness of the cushions. Breathe. Inhale. Focus. Exhale. Calm.

A wet cloth on his brow. She was wiping his face. He was like a child and he should not be. Not here. Not with her. He tried to sit up, but a hand on his chest pushed him back onto the pillows.

“Shhh, rest now,” Dís murmured, gently stroking his beardless cheek. “Balin said that your injuries still pained you.”

“’s alright,” he assured her, finding his voice again. The water and the rest had refreshed him somewhat and his vision had started to clear. That and some good and gentle care as his grandmother had always called it. “Those are old wounds now. The elves gave me something for the pain,” he said. “Some floral nonsense,” he added in his best imitation of Balin.

“You are not taking it now, are you?” Dís asked.

“Nay, ran out the day before yesterday.”

“Is that why you have been drinking like a fish? To dull the pain?”

He neither confirmed nor denied it, but his silence was probably enough of an answer for Dís.

“Let’s have a look at that then,” Dís continued in a brisk manner. “Off with those boots and then we’ll see what I can do for you.”

She moved towards the other end of the sofa and started to untie his bootlaces. Dwalin tried to bat her fingers away.

“Don’t Dís. Just let me rest a while. It’s not that bad. I will be alright.”

“Nonsense,” she said sharply, looking up at him over his boots that really were dreadfully muddy. “Remember what I told you about being ‘alright’? Not in here, in here you don’t need to pretend you are alright. In here you are just Dwalin.”

She was kind to him when she really should not be. She had every reason to hate him and instead she treated him like she actually cared, like it mattered whether he was well or not. He knew he would always bear the memories and the scars of the battle for Erebor. And he knew that Dís would too. He did not want to add to her burden. He had already caused her so much pain. He did not want her to see. However, there was little he could actually do. He knew he was still able to overpower her, even in the state he was currently in. But the last thing he wanted was to frighten or harm her in any way. He cursed inwardly for getting himself into this situation at all. He should have found shelter somewhere before she had a chance to stumble upon him. He should have found another way to dull his physical and mental pain. But he was here now and he knew that Dís would not rest until she had seen his wounds. He would just have to do his best to demonstrate that they were not nearly as bad as they looked.

She took his boots off, which was hampered by his inability to move his toes or his ankle. Then she removed his warm woollen socks. Dwalin was suddenly glad that he had bathed the previous day. She would now be able to see the first few inches of some of the angry red scars. She did not make a noise. Dís had lived her entire life among warriors, had tended to her husband, her brother and her sons many times, and Dwalin knew she was not squeamish. Nonetheless, there was a sharp intake of breath when she rolled up the leg of his trousers to reveal the full extend of the damage that had been done to his calf, first by the wargs, then by Óin and finally by the elven healers. A gentle finger traced the longest of the scars, the one that ran down the full length of his shin. An audible gasp as she explored the network of scars that crisscrossed on the knobbly mass that now passed for a muscle.

“Mahal’s beard,” she finally breathed. “You should have said…”

It was unlike Dís to curse in such a manner. She would have certainly chastised her sons for it and had more than once punched Dwalin for using such language in front of them. As far as saying something was concerned, Dwalin disagreed. It was not like that would have changed anything. The elven healers had rescued his leg. It was his task now to get on with life as best he could. There was nothing anybody could do.

It turned out that there was something Dís could do. First, she gently bathed his leg in warm water, then she carefully rubbed a thick salve into the aching flesh. Dwalin tensed at first, apprehensive of the torment her touch would cause, but Dís’ fingers were nimble and skilful. After the first onslaught of pain, Dwalin actually felt his muscles loosening and he allowed himself to settle into the pleasant massage. The burning hurt soon receded and he was left with only a dull throbbing. It was a relief. The past two days since he ran out of the elven medicine had been sheer agony. Dís finished the treatment with a tender stroke of his foot. Some of the nerves and muscles had been severed and had been beyond even elven skill to mend, so he did not feel much, but he saw her good intentions. He smiled at her when she looked up from her work.

“Thank you,” he said. “That was wonderful.”

“It was my pleasure,” she answered with a smile. “Where else are you hurt? Balin mentioned you had taken another wound…”

Curse his brother!

“My side… but it’s nothing,” Dwalin admitted grudgingly. “Truly, Dís, don’t bother. I feel much better now.”

And he did. He probably felt better than he had in months. But he had no desire to reveal his other injury to her. That wound had almost become like a secret for him. Everybody enquired about his leg, everybody knew, there was no way to hide his limp. Not many people knew that other parts of his body had also been injured. He bore the pain silently for the most part. It was his private punishment for what he had done and he was loathe to reveal it to anyone. Now it would be revealed. Dìs had begun to carefully peel away layer after layer of his clothing.

“Oh Dwalin…,” she whispered and he knew that she had reached the thick padding he had put at the waistband of his trousers to protect the sutures and alleviate some of the discomfort. From experience and the level of pain throughout the evening, he knew that the wounds had bled again. He stared at the floor, reluctant to meet Dís eye. He knew what she saw, what she felt as her finger ghosted over the stitched up flesh. The angry bruises had disappeared, but the skin was red, swollen and hot to the touch in some parts. While some of the cuts had already healed quite neatly and were now merely red lines, others had been ripped open again.

“Did you suture that yourself?” Dís asked, fingers resting next to what Dwalin knew to be the ugliest of the wounds. It was difficult to reach and his stitches were nothing like the miniscule and perfectly straight ones of the elven healer.

“Aye,” Dwalin confirmed. “It opened up again the day we arrived.”

“That day,” Dís said, hesitating, and Dwalin, finally looking up, saw her face blanche. “You carried me that day. If I had known you were so hurt…”

“It was a long journey. Weeks of hard riding. It was only natural that I tore some stitches.”

“You shouldn’t have, Dwalin…”

“I did. And I would do it again,” he said firmly and took her hand into his. Squeezing ever so gently, he continued. “It was only a small part that opened up, no need to worry your beard grey.”

He stroked her cheek where her beard was slowly growing back, dark stubble that suited her very well indeed. It was true; he had stitched larger wounds on his own body. All the warriors had. After battles and out on long journeys they did not always have the luxury of a healer or even a suitably skilled friend when they were needed. It was strange at first, punching a needle through skin, drawing a wound together when your own body was the one requiring the stitching. But it had to be done.

Dís washed his body with warm water, urging him to remain on the sofa. He relished the rest. And the gentle care.

“How did this happen?” she asked. “You are such a skilled warrior.”

“It is not about skill, not in a battle such as this,” Dwalin said with a sigh. Dís had been involved in skirmishes on the road, unavoidable during their life in poverty. She had actually defended this very settlement more than once, but always from a position of strength and with sufficient support. She did not know the ways of a large battle. And as long as Dwalin lived she would never learn them.

Dís applied a soothing cream and set to properly bandaging the more recent wounds.

“These wounds are truly terrible. You have the full jaw of a warg embossed here.”

“It sure feels like it’s still got its teeth in me.”

“How did this happen?” she asked again. And Dwalin told her. It was time to confess at least this shortcoming.

“I was… trying to reach Fíli and Kíli. They were defending Thorin’s body. I did not know he still lived. Then I saw Ori… he had gotten himself into a spot of trouble with that pack of wargs. He was still standing but only just. The lads… they looked to be doing alright for the moment. That was my mistake. I got Ori out of that, got between him and the leader of that pack. Killed that beast. The others were not so happy about that. Decided to take a good bite or two. Ori was safe. But I took too long… too long to get up. When I did, it was to watch Fíli take that spear into his shoulder. I’m sorry, Dís. I was too late. I…”

“You saved Ori’s life,” she said quietly, smoothing the tunic over his torso. “You did what was right. I do not blame you for my sons’ deaths.”

“But I…”

“You did all you could,” she cut him off. “I do not blame you, Dwalin.”

She was on her knees in front of the sofa now, their faces level. She stroked his short beard, such gentleness in her touch. Dwalin clasped her other hand again, enveloped it in his bigger ones. Their eyes locked and Dís’ were full of kindness and compassion, dark blue pools sparkling in the light of the fire. Those hauntingly blue eyes. She was beautiful. Tall and stern like her brother, but also warm and kind. So kind. She always had been. She tilted her head and leaned in even closer. Dwalin could feel her warmth on his skin, her hand now resting on his shoulder. They were so close now. Their breaths mingled. So close.

“You are such a good dwarf,” Dís whispered.

He dropped her hand like a burning ember and sat up suddenly, not heading the pain that lanced through his body.

“No,” he said grimly. “No. I’m no good dwarf.”

“The best I know for sure.”

“No. I’m no good dwarf. I’m a monster. Nothing but a killer.”

“You are a warrior, Dwalin, not a killer. You take the lives of our enemies.”

“I have taken the lives of dwarves.”

The confession burst out of him without conscious thought.

“In self-defence or as punishment for the most dreadful of crimes. That is not murder, that is justice,” Dís insisted.

“I did not only take lives as punishment,” Dwalin said tonelessly. “I murdered dwarves, Dís. I’m a murderer.”

“You are not.”

There was such certainty in her voice. He had to tell her.

“In the war… I was tending the wounded with Gróin, but then the orcs were upon us once more. We could not hold our position. We had to retreat quickly,” Dwalin recounted, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice, to make this a soldier’s report. “We had orders to leave no dwarf behind. We had seen what the orcs did to those they caught. But we could not move them, those who had been badly wounded. There was no time. We could not stay, but we could not leave them either. I… I cut their throats.”

Dwalin hung his head in shame at his confession. It had been short, but it pained him nonetheless. He grasped his head in his hands and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Whether he was shielding or hiding himself, he did not know. There was silence in the room. His secret was out. For the very first time, he had told somebody what he had done. He would now face the consequences.

A tentative hand touched his elbow, startling Dwalin. He flinched, but the hand stayed where it was. After a while it slowly meandered upward, along his forearm. Eventually, Dís’ fingers reached his right hand and softly enveloped his wrist, her thumb lightly brushing back and forth over his frantic pulse. They sat in silence. Dwalin’s muscles were taunt. Only Dís’ warm fingers seemed to anchor him in the present. Finally, he raised his head and looked at her.

Dís smiled.

He had expected shouting. Crying. Accusations. Curses. Punishment for his deeds. Had she decided to chain him to the rock deep within an abandoned mine shaft, it would have surprised him less than this. Dís smiled. A sad smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“You were so young back then,” she said. “No wonder this has been torturing you ever since. Thank you for sharing this painful memory with me.”

She smiled. Dwalin felt she did not understand at all.

“But I killed them. Eleven of them. I killed them all.”

“Only to spare them from a truly horrible death. They were always going to die on that day. You made the death of each of those eleven as painless and quick as possible. You are a good dwarf.”

He was not. He had to tell her.

“My father, at Azanulbizar he… I…,” he found himself unable to continue the sentence. He tried several times, becoming breathless as his tongue faltered again and again. Dís grasped his shoulders and held him at arm’s length, forcing him to look at her.

“Your father received a terrible wound in the battle. You merely ensured his journey to Mahal’s halls was a quick one.”

She knew!

“Balin told me that Fundin died with his throat and abdomen cut,” Dís explained. “Not many sons could have done that for their father. You are a very special dwarf, Dwalin.”

“I am a kinslayer.”

“Orcs had slain your father long before you ever reached him.”

She gently touched her forehead against his as he still sat bowed low enough for her to be able to do that from her kneeling stance. The gesture was comforting. He could feel her hot breath on his lips as she spoke.

“You are my dear friend, Dwalin. I do not condemn your deeds. On the contrary. You showed great courage and resilience in the most difficult of situations. I pity you for having to end your father’s life, but those battle dreams that torture you, they do not show you anything that you should be ashamed of. You did your best, you did this most difficult deed for your father. You are a good dwarf, Dwalin.”

Her tone was sad, but her words were so heartfelt and sincere, that Dwalin allowed himself to relax somewhat. She still called him her friend.

Maybe – just maybe – everything would be alright.


	12. Chapter 12

The journey went smoothly, considering the circumstances. Once they had left the mountains behind, temperatures remained above freezing even during the nights and it was unseasonably dry and sunny, with large patches of snowdrops blooming along the road. With the favourable weather and the decent condition the path was in, the small group of dwarves made good speed, traveling as they were with minimal luggage. Dís was pressing on relentlessly. It would have been easier in the Ered Luin where she had plenty of tasks to keep herself occupied, but on the road there was not much to do in order to escape her dark thoughts. The faster they rode, the less time she had to think; the more exhausted she was at night, the less chance she had of tossing and turning, of dreaming of death when she did finally slip into an uneasy sleep. But she could not entirely ignore their need for some small comforts, if not for herself, at least for her companions. They had taken shelter in Bree for the night, restocking supplies and resting their ponies in this small settlement of Men. Dís had never been particularly fond of the Tall Folk, but at least there were Hobbits in this town, which ensured an ample supply of more reasonably sized rooms. The woolly-footed halflings attracted her attention after all she had heard about Thorin’s chosen burglar. They seemed to be genial creatures, honest and rather home-bound, so it surprised her that one of their lot had been so instrumental in reclaiming Erebor. It was a merry gathering in the common room that night, too merry for Dís’ taste. When a pair of young Hobbits started dancing on the table, she could not take it any longer. This was Jóli’s sort of pub. Their sons would have loved it. She excused herself.

The back courtyard was deserted at this time of night, as everyone had either gone home or was enjoying the entertainment in the inn. Dís breathed deeply, enjoying the cool night air, as well as the relative silence surrounding her. There were some noises emanating from the building behind her and a horse was whinnying in the stables, but nobody was watching her, nobody was making demands. Dáin’s men and particularly his son had not been the most amenable of travel companions despite having reached an uneasy truce until such time when she could speak to her cousin in person. Their bickering did nothing for Dís frayed nerves, but neither did the concern the other members of her party showed for her wellbeing. She just wanted to be left alone, wanted to hide underneath a blanket in a darkened room with nothing but her grief for company.

Footsteps approached and a door squeaked on its hinges. Typical of Men. Such shoddy workmanship would never occur in a dwarven settlement. Dís did not turn to face the intruder, she recognised his gait, the pronounced limp, the heavy boots; of course it was Dwalin who came after her. It was always Dwalin. He put a blanket around her shoulders, a blanket that smelled of him, and she pushed herself up slightly, feeling his large hands on her body. When he recoiled, she took a step back and leaned against his muscular torso. He was warm and comforting, not in the way Jóli had been, but unlike her husband Dwalin was here now and at least that was something. Dís needed this physical contact, craved it, but Dwalin had been reluctant to give it to her. She could feel his breath hitch, his broad chest shudder. He loved her, had declared her his One before he even came of age, and she knew that his love for her had never died, had only lain dormant for all these decades, when she had first scoffed at him, when she had loved and married another, and even when she had become a widow. He still loved her and he would do anything for her. Dwarves only loved once and Dwalin’s loyalty was legendary. He would do nicely.

Dís shivered slightly and Dwalin’s hands were on her shoulders again, warm, big hands that rubbed small circles on her shoulder blades. His breaths were uneven, hot against her ear. This was as good a moment as any. She shrugged out from underneath his fingers and turned to face him.

“Do you love me, Dwalin?”

He squirmed uncomfortably and did not answer until she repeated the question.

“I... I care for you,” he finally said, hesitantly. Dís figured that this was as good as it was going to get tonight. It was enough.

“Marry me,” she said, not a question as such, merely a demand that she knew he would fulfil.

Dwalin stared at her stupidly, a poignant reminder of the reason she had never seriously considered him as a suitor. He was nice enough, a formidable warrior and had been considered very handsome in their younger days, but Mahal had certainly not blessed him with a quick wit.

“What?” he finally asked.

“Marry me,” Dís repeated. “Take me as your wife.”

“You married... you married Jóli 90 years ago,” Dwalin said flatly.

“Yes, obviously,” Dís said impatiently. “And I was widowed more than seven times seven years ago which makes me eligible for remarriage if there is no heir to carry on my line.”

“But... you had your heirs... you had them with Jóli.”

His slowness might have been endearing in other circumstances, but this was her life and the future of her people he was toying with and it aggravated Dís.

“My sons are spent, Dwalin, you of all people should know that. I need an heir!”

He did not reply, staring at her in shock. She would need to use a sharper blade to trigger a reaction.

“I’m your One,” Dís said boldly.

He averted his gaze. “That was a long time ago,” he mumbled.

“You never stopped loving me,” she stated, knowing that she was putting her finger in an open wound and hoping that the pain would make him relent.

“It’s not like that,” Dwalin said with a sigh.

Instead of an answer, Dís stroked his short beard gently, feeling his jaw shift underneath the soft hair. Dwalin pulled away slightly, but hesitated.

“You are married, Dís, your husband has earned my respect many times over, I shall not trample his memory into the dirt,” Dwalin said resolutely.

“You would not,” she soothed, still petting his face. Warriors and their overblown sense of duty and honour. “On the contrary. I want to give Jóli another son and I need your help to do that. Will you marry me, Dwalin?”

He did not reply, but she could feel his body stiffen and his jaw clench. It would not do to lose him now.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you do not love me any more,” she hissed.

He looked her in the eye, but it was clearly sadness, not love that darkened his gaze.

“Say it,” she demanded.

He could not do that, had never been able to lie to her. He looked away, far into the night.

“It is not like that,” he repeated.

Dís was not one to give up so easily. It was the perfect plan and she would not let Dwalin’s pig-headedness ruin it. He had no right to do that to her, he was supposed to obey.

“Think about it, Dwalin. Durin’s blood on both sides, our son would be unstoppable!” she exclaimed, perhaps louder than she should have, but his refusal was making her angry.

“No,” he said, taking a step back, and his voice was shaking as he continued. “I will have no part in this, Dís.”

“What is it with you?” she shouted. She was losing him, he was getting ready to retreat and she could not allow that, had to capture his attention somehow, had to make him stay, make him listen and agree. “Are you afraid?”

Dwalin stared at her, eyes wide. He was much taller and stronger than Jóli had been, a master of the fighting arts, feared by many, appreciated for the brute force he possessed.

“Show me some loyalty,” she demanded and then added something that she was sure nobody had ever said to Dwalin. “Or have you become a coward?”

It was an insult and she knew it was a false accusation, but there had to be something that spurred the old warrior into action, that made the steadfast soldier follow his leader as unquestioningly as he usually did. He blinked at her several times, and then took in a deep breath. To her surprise he nodded his head.

“Aye, call me a coward. I will gladly be a coward if that is what caring for you makes me,” Dwalin declared.

“You cannot mean that,” Dís hissed, not entirely sure which part of that she disbelieved. “If you cared for me you would do what is best for me, you would do my bidding!”

“Aye, I shall always try to do what is best for you, but I will have no part in this,” Dwalin said quietly. His calm tone aggravated Dís even more.

“Where is your fabled loyalty now?” she demanded, voice rising. “Are you abandoning me in my hour of need?”

Dwalin raised his hands in what she supposed was meant to be an appeasing gesture, but it only enraged her further. He would have never questioned Thorin like this! He had always followed Thorin without doubt!

“I would do anything to help you,” Dwalin had the impertinence to declare.

“Then give me a son!” Dís shouted, seeing her own spit land on his chin, but not caring. Dwalin did not wipe his face.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because he would be the perfect heir, you fool! Durin’s blood on both sides, Dáin’s claim would not stand a chance!”

“Any child you bear would be Jóli’s.”

“In the eyes of the law, yes, but everyone would know who really sired him, would know he is from good stock,” Dís destroyed his argument.

Dwalin lowered his head.

“Like a prized calf,” he said quietly, then looked up with new resolve. “I am no bull, Dís.”

“It is what you want,” she hissed, grabbing his shoulder. “What you always wanted! You always wanted to get underneath my skirts. Well, here is your chance!”

“No,” he uttered, voice barely audible. “Not now, Dís, and certainly not like this.”

“It is your duty!” Dís shouted. “Do your duty and serve me!”

Dwalin took another step back.

“No,” he declared with finality. “I’m not going to harm you, and a third pregnancy at your age is almost certain to harm you. Duty or no, I will not be responsible for that.”

Dís was left flabbergasted for a moment. A small rational voice in the back of her head confirmed that dwarven pregnancies got much more difficult with age, but soon rage clouded her thoughts again. How dare he bring her age into this!

“I ensure you, I can still bear a child!” she confirmed hotly.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Dwalin replied. “Think of all the mothers you have known who died in childbirth, think of the ones whose body could not suffer through the ordeal of labour again, think of Mari who died at only 164. You are 181, Dís!”

“If that is what it takes, I shall gladly give my own life!”

The sentence hung between them. Dwalin shook his head wearily and sighed.

“Look at Ori, look what growing up without a mother has done to him. And your child would not even have the loving brothers that looked out for him.”

“I don’t care! I need an heir!”

“Why?” Dwalin asked again. The fool! His diminutive brain just could not grasp this matter.

“Because Erebor is mine! And I will not part with it; I will not relinquish it to Dáin and his dupe of a son – they have no right to this throne!”

“Is your own life so cheap to you that you would barter it for Erebor?”

“My life is nothing,” Dís said. Dwalin interrupted her murmuring “Not to me.” But she ignored it. “Erebor has taken the lives of my entire family, I’ll happily add my own to the pile of corpses,” Dís spat.

“Your aim is not to govern our people better than Dáin or Thorin could,” Dwalin said, a statement, not a question. Dís barely remembered ever claiming that. She might as well give him her real reason.

“It is the only thing that makes any sense of all of this,” she said. “My sons died to reclaim Erebor for our line, to give it up now would be to insult their memory. Their sacrifice would have been in vain!”

Dwalin just stared at her for a long moment and for an instant she was convinced that she had finally persuaded him, that he would finally see sense. But there was no joyful realisation in his eyes, only sadness, only pain.

“Is it a sacrifice now?” he asked. “You denied it a few short weeks ago, said you would have never sacrificed your sons, but now you are so eager to sacrifice not just yourself, but a third son as well. You have changed, Dís.”

She watched him turn on his heel and limp back up the wooden steps into the tavern leaving her alone, though still wrapped into his blanket. He would regret this.

While she had spent most of the journey so far riding alongside Dwalin, Dís now ignored him completely, preferring to spend her time with almost anybody else, not answering him on the rare occasions when he dared to approach her. He had no place in her life since he had turned against her, siding with those who did not take her seriously simply because she had been born a dwarrowdam, questioning her judgement, and unwilling to follow her. She would show him. She would show them all!

The weather stayed favourable, making their progress swift and the ride as comfortable as it could be this early in the year. Dís rarely looked at the endless expanse of grassy land surrounding them, preferring instead to think of Erebor, to dream of her triumphant return and occasionally to discuss politics with Balin who had been remarkably courteous to her. They passed the three large trolls that the sun had turned to stone and Ori’s tale of this particular episode of their quest made Dís smile for the first time since Bree.

When she first heard Balin shout his brother’s name, she disregarded it. She had no business with that oaf. But Balin’s shouts grew more desperate and one by one the other riders stopped, so finally Dís reined in her mare and turned in the saddle. She saw Dwalin’s horse running free, then spotted Balin kneeling on the path next to his brother’s unmoving body.


	13. Chapter 13

There was no pain. That was good. He was floating. Everything was so soft; it felt like he was resting on top of down pillows. The Halls of Mandos were even better than Dwalin had imagined. He felt well-rested, as if he was just awaking after a very long sleep. He was dead, he was finally dead. It was a good feeling. He had been waiting for this moment since the battle and it had been torture to know that he might yet live for many decades. There had been so much pain in those past months, both physical and mental, that he had almost forgotten the pleasure of feeling whole in body and in spirit. He had returned now to the side of his king, of his princes. He was where both his heart and his duty demanded he should be. His duty. The memories of the last few days before his death returned to him. His duty lay with Dís, his duty was at her side, but she had pushed him away, had kept as far away from him as possible and sneered at him when he did approach. His duty lay with Dís, but he had failed her, just like he had failed her entire family; he had disobeyed her, had put his own understanding of right and wrong, his love and concern for her above her own wishes and the commands she gave him. He had failed her and now she was alone in a wide and treacherous world. Maybe his death would be a relief to her, would free her of this lingering shadow of the past. He could only hope that some good came of it, that she would find the freedom to follow the path she so desperately wanted to take. And yet, he wished that he could be there with her, could support her in as far as she would let him. Dwalin sighed deeply. It was a cruel world that he had left behind, and cruellest of all had been the blows it had dealt to the one he so dearly loved.

“Oh Dís...” he whispered, his voice raspy as if he had not used it for days.

“You’re awake! Mister Dwalin, you are finally awake,” a voice cried next to him, a youthful voice so full of energy that he figured it had to be Kíli’s before he even opened his eyes. It sounded younger than Kíli had been when... but then again, Dwalin did not know how age worked in the Halls of Mandos. Maybe they were all children here. He smiled at the thought. Oh how he longed to meet Kíli again, to speak to him, to gain some reassurance that what he had done to the lad had been the right thing. With a great effort Dwalin opened his eyes and slowly, very slowly, the blurry outline of a head framed by dark hair swam into view.

“Kíli,” he said, voice still hoarse, the single word scratching his throat, as he blinked his eyes a couple of times in an attempt to focus his vision.

“I’m so glad you are finally awake! Can I have one of your warg’s teeth? They look so impressive! You should see how long they are, it’s really fascinating, and Ada says those two are among the smallest ones in a warg’s jaw. I so want a warg’s tooth of my own! I’ve never even seen a living warg before, just a few dead ones. But Ada says I have to ask you before I take a tooth, because really, they belong to you and you fought for them quite a bit. That’s true, you know, and I really wouldn’t take anything from you without asking, but I’d really, really like one of the teeth, you know just if it’s not too much bother and you don’t really need it, it would really mean a lot to me,” Kíli’s voice chattered on and although the excitement was very familiar, the tone and the accent of it were not.

Dwalin squeezed his eyes shut tightly and when he opened them again, he was able to make out a dark-haired figure that was clearly not Kíli. It was obviously a young boy, probably in his late twenties, early thirties at a stretch. But he looked... wrong... too tall for a boy his age and very frail as well. In fact he looked like a miniature version of a Man. That made very little sense. Dwalin could not think of any reason why a Man, a very young one at that, would be sitting at his bedside, or what a Man was doing in the Halls of Waiting in the first place.

“Hullo,” he said uncertainly.

“Oh, hullo,” the lad interrupted himself and jumped to his feet. “I must apologise, you do not even know my name, though I of course know yours. Estel, at your service!”

At this declaration he performed a low bow. Dwalin just stared at him. His brain was still too foggy to make sense of all this, but this Estel seemed amicable enough and did not seem to require much of an answer to continue their conversation.

“That’s how you introduce yourself, right? I have read all about Dwarves, you know. We have a lot of books and I read all about your customs and your culture and even that you have a secret language, but of course I could not read about that because it’s secret. Can you teach me some words maybe? That would be really fun, I would love to learn a secret language!”

Kíli would have been a positively boring companion compared to this child. Dwalin was still trying to make sense of the boy’s appearance and his incessant chatter when Estel interrupted himself again, and smacking his forehead with his palm exclaimed:

“Oh, first, let me welcome you. Welcome to the House of Elrond! You weren’t really in a state to see much of it when you first arrived, but you are very welcome here indeed.”

“The House of Elrond,” Dwalin repeated slowly. “Not the Halls of Mandos?”

“The Halls of...” the boy said, somewhat flustered for the first time. “Nah, why would you be...? Ohhhh, you didn’t think you were dead, did you?”

“Not... dead?” Dwalin asked. His brain seemed to slowly catch up with the information he was receiving. He hoped it was all a mistake, he hoped that he really was dead, that he was about to be reunited with Thorin, Fíli and Kíli.

“Of course not,” the boy said, suddenly serious. “You were gravely wounded and had fallen into deep unconsciousness when your party arrived at Rivendell, but Elrond is a great healer and he managed to save your life. You have been asleep for several days, but that you have woken up now is a sign that your body is strong enough to fight the infection and you should be able to get up soon, although you’ll have to take it easy for a while.”

That seemed quite a big speech for a child his age and Dwalin glanced up at Estel in astonishment. Alert grey eyes met his gaze openly and a broad smile appeared on the youthful features.

“I should probably run and fetch him, Elrond that is. He said to come and get him if you showed any signs of waking,” he explained, then turned to race out of the door, only stopping at the last moment to instruct “You just wait right here, I will only be a moment!

The silence that followed his departure was very welcome indeed. Dwalin took a deep breath. So apparently he was still alive. That was not an altogether welcome development, but could not be helped for the time being. He was not only alive, but also in the house of that prissy elfling. He tried to reconstruct the events that led up to that, but found he had no memories of arriving here. His memories grew hazy a few days after they had left Bree. Dís had shunned him and he had been left to ride on his own, increasingly lost in a haze of pain and a burning fever. That did not explain how he had ended up here. He tried to remember their journey, but his mind was blank except for endless days of riding through grassy plains. He had vague memories of discovering that the wound on his side had started to ooze copious amounts of puss. He had cleaned it as best he could, and had carried on for as long as he could. The trolls! They had passed the trolls! He recalled seeing Dís smile when Ori told her the tale of their encounter. It had been a beautiful smile. The trolls had been close to the elven refuge. After that there had only been darkness and pain until he woke up here, bedded on crisp white sheets, bathed in the bright sunlight of early spring, and found himself welcomed to Rivendell by a chatty little boy.

“Mister Dwalin, I found Elrond. He’s here now to see if you are in any pain!” the whirlwind of a child shouted as he burst back into the room. Dwalin smiled. This boy was so much like the young princes. He still recalled that childish enthusiasm for absolutely anything. To be fair, Kíli had never really grown out of that phase, had never been given the chance to do so.

The tall elf followed the boy in more measured strides, but he too smiled which was somewhat surprising given the manner of their departure from his house the previous year.

“Welcome, Master Dwarf! My young apprentice informs me that you have been awake for a short while now,” he said evenly.

Dwalin nodded his agreement and cleared his throat.

“Dwalin, at your service, Master Elf,” he said, inclining his head slightly. If what the boy said was true, he apparently owed this elven king or lord or whatever he was his life, and even though it was an unwelcome gift, he should probably still offer his service in return, small though it might be at the moment.

The elf was all grace and elegance as he floated around the room. Estel had positioned himself a few feet away from Dwalin’s bed. Elrond sat on a low stool, long legs neatly folded, back straight, watching the Dwarf intently. Dwalin’s glance was steely. Just because he was in the Elf’s house did not mean that he was entirely at his mercy. Their last meeting had not gone particularly well, he was well aware of the great lengths he and his companions had gone to ensure they were the most unpleasant of houseguests. A small smile danced around the elf’s lips.

“Lady Dís sends her regards,” he said. “I hope she finds our hospitality slightly more agreeable than her brother.”

Dwalin nodded in acknowledgement, but did not answer. He was not the son of Fundin reknown for his quick comebacks and whatever wit he did possess had deserted him at the mention of Dís. Elrond took no notice.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

Dwalin took some time to contemplate that; he had not really considered the matter so far. Quite apart from Estel’s chatter, there had been more pressing matters on his mind, mainly the question of how he had gotten here in the first place. He gingerly stretched his legs. There was a dull ache in his shredded thigh and part of the foot remained numb, but there was no pain as such. Bandages were wound tight around his torso and his fingers ghosted over soft padding on his side. He was hesitant to touch the area, but pain shot through him nonetheless when he tentatively tried to flex his stomach muscles. A hissed breath escaped him before he could grit his teeth, but the Elf had the good grace to not comment on it. The last thing Dwalin needed was to appear even weaker than he already was. So there was still an issue there, but at least the wound should be clean now, judging by the pristine white sheets on the bed and the spotless nightshirt – he noted it was not his own – he was dressed in. His arms and hands seemed to be in proper working order and his head had definitely cleared since he had woken up.

“Fine,” he told Elrond. “Pretty tired, but should be good to go in a moment.”

If the Elf detected the lie in his words, he did not comment. He merely nodded and rose from his perch in one fluid motion.

“I would like to have a look at your wounds, if you permit it, Master Dwarf,” he said and lingered until Dwalin had grunted his approval.

The Elf’s movements were quick and efficient as he removed the blanket and bent over the knobbly remnants of Dwalin’s leg. His fingers ghosted over the patched skin, probing in places, but never causing any pain.

“This has healed nicely,” he declared. “There has been some damage to the nerves, but given time some feeling might return to your foot. Some tightness in the muscle is quite normal, but will usually be alleviated by regular gentle exercise. While you are not in any state to achieve this at the moment, a daily massage does provide some relief.”

He reached out a hand and Estel placed a small pot into it. The boy had been so uncharacteristically quiet that Dwalin had all but forgotten his presence. The Elf coated his fingers in a thick salve and began to rub it into Dwalin’s leg. It did not possess the sweet floral smell of the potion he had been given by Thranduil’s healers, but was instead light and refreshing, and Dwalin breathed in deeply. His breath hitched as his body protested the strain. Shallow breaths it was then. For a while, neither one of them spoke, as Dwalin enjoyed the firm touch and let his eyes slip shut again.

“Could you turn to lie on your side, please?” Elrond asked eventually. Dwalin tried, he really did, but his muscles did not cooperate the way they usually did and he found he could not move. He reached out for the bedpost to try and hoist himself up, but Elrond’s hands were on his hip and shoulder in an instant, repositioning him with strength that was surprising for somebody that thin. A low groan escaped Dwalin, as a knife seemed to cut through his side at the movement, and he was breathing heavily by the time he had been manoeuvred into the right position. Elrond lifted the shirt and Estel handed him a pair of scissors, again without uttering a single word.

“I shall merely cut away the dressings,” Elrond explained, holding the scissors so Dwalin could see them. “I do not want to jostle you any more than necessary.”

Dwalin appreciated the sentiment, and concentrated on evening out his breathing as the bandages were removed, tugging uncomfortably on hair and tender skin. The pain seemed to have spread and he noticed that it now reached far up to his ribs. He could not see for himself, but Elrond described every step to him. He was bathing the area, he was testing the integrity of the suture, he was feeling for signs of a recurring infection. Eventually, he declared himself satisfied. He bedded Dwalin on his back again, then thoroughly washed his hands in a nearby basin and dried them on a towel that Estel handed him. For one so young the boy seemed a surprisingly apt apprentice. Finally, Elrond sat again.

“You are healing well, and the fact that you have awoken already is testament to your strength, but you are recovering from major surgery, some tiredness is only to be expected,” he said.

“Why am I still alive?” Dwalin asked. Might as well cut straight to the core of the matter. Elrond looked at him strangely, then glanced at Estel before he answered.

“Your companions had the good sense to bring you here.”

“Balin,” Dwalin murmured.

“Indeed, your brother was concerned for your welfare and fortunately remembered these paths. My guards were somewhat hesitant to let your company pass, given our prior meeting, but you do indeed possess a most gifted advocate in Dís, daughter of Thrain.”

Dís had spoken for him? Dwalin hid his surprise well as Elrond continued his tale.

“As you know, your wound had become badly infected. By the time you arrived in my care, the infection had spread to your blood. Fortunately, I was able to discover the source of the infection with relative ease and remove it. Two teeth had remained in your body when the healers closed the wound for the first time, aggravating the healing tissue, and leading to the persistent pain and infection you suffered.”

“Incompetent woodland sprites,” Dwalin cursed.

“Do not forget,” Elrond answered calmly. “That they were, from what your brother tells me, performing surgery on you on the cracked table of a long-abandoned tavern, relying mainly on daggers, oil lamps and some sturdy ropes. We possess somewhat more sophisticated instruments here.”

“It’s a poor craftsman who blames his tools,” Dwalin muttered, but Elrond did not reply to this.

“The teeth were imbedded deeply within your bones. We were able to remove one of them, but the extraction of the other required considerable force and ended up breaking one of your ribs, which might explain some of the discomfort you experience. I drained the wounds thoroughly and removed any decaying flesh. While I am pleased with the progress you have made, I’m afraid I must insist on keeping you under close observation for several more days. You have lost much blood and your body has much healing yet to do.”

Dwalin growled at that, then tenderly reached over with his hand to inspect the damage that had been done. He could feel the broken rib, which explained the pain when breathing. He traced a long, but seemingly neat suture that stretched nearly to his hipbone. The skin was stretched and tender, but smooth, with no remaining evidence of the prior attempts at stitching. Unfortunately for him, this Elf seemed to be a true master of his craft and eager to not have his masterpiece spoiled by inexpert handling.

“The warg’s teeth...” Dwalin mused, looking over at Estel who had been patiently waiting in a corner. The boy bit his lip. Elrond looked at him with obvious amusement.

“Has he been pestering you?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Dwalin answered, winking at the lad and watching him blush. A little shared secret had always guaranteed him the status of a favourite with his young cousins. It seemed no different with this boy. Not that he had any time to build up a relationship with this child.

“We need to move on,” he insisted.

“You will not be riding any time soon,” Elrond said. “But you are welcome to remain here for as long as you want.”

“I do not want to remain here. We are on an urgent mission.”

“Your companions are of course welcome to return to Erebor at their earliest convenience. But as my patient, I must insist that you stay here until you have regained some of your strength.”

“You doubt my strength?” Dwalin growled. He made to get up, ignoring the pain, but as soon as he lifted his head from the pillows, his vision swam and the familiar blackness came beckoning. Elrond gently lowered his body and a wet cloth was pressed to his brow. When he opened his eyes again, Estel was smiling at him.

“I guess you should really stay a while,” the boy said with a smirk. He must have sprung into action immediately when he saw Dwalin’s predicament. Dwalin wondered how such a young Man had come to be the assistant of an Elvish healer.

“Your companions may visit you tomorrow,” Elrond said. “But for now, I would like you to rest and recover. Do you think you could stomach some food?”

“Aye,” Dwalin confirmed through gritted teeth. He was not particularly hungry, but it might help him gain some strength. He could not stand the thought of this prissy Elf tending to him like an infant.

“Estel, run to the kitchens and retrieve a weak broth,” Elrond instructed.

"Sure, I'll do that, Ada," the young boy shouted, dashing out of the door.

Dwalin raised an eyebrow in astonishment.

"Ada?" he asked of the tall Elf by his side. "I would have said the lad was a Man! He certainly does not look like one of your lot..."

His voice trailed off as he watched the pinched expression on Elrond's face, and he whistled softly.

"Would not have thought that happened with your people," he admitted.

"It's not... not like that," Elrond said stiffly, busying himself with some herbs, but sounding rather flustered. "He has no father, but has lived in my House for as long as he can remember. He has... developed a certain affection..."

The lad was not the only one, Dwalin thought to himself, but outwardly he merely bemoaned the lack of drama in that explanation. The boy remained an enigma to him, and as he was apparently destined to be stuck in bed for a few more days, he might as well gather as much information as he could about the Elven lord's unusual foster-son.


	14. Chapter 14

“Fine work,” Dwalin praised. “Now focus on the tip. You want to round it off a bit more so it doesn’t tear your clothing to shreds.”

The lad beamed up at him and carefully took the tooth back. Dwalin had taught him how to file and polish the warg’s teeth that had been removed from his bones. He had no special attachment to the nasty things. They served only as reminders of his great failure, his failure to protect those dearest to him as well as his failure to just finally give in and die. Estel on the other hand regarded them as his most prized possessions.

“How old are you?” the boy asked, not even looking up from his work.

“I’ll be a hundred and seventy this summer,” Dwalin answered. He was still a dwarf in his prime and not precious about such information.

“Oooh,” Estel exclaimed. “We are almost the same age! I’m eleven next week!”

Dwalin was about to point out that his arithmetic was a bit off and they were nowhere close to being the same age, but the youngster did not give him an opportunity to speak as he once again launched into incessant chatter.

“You are the youngest person I have ever talked to! Except for my mother of course, she is very young as well, but all the others here are at least two thousand years older than me. Even my brothers – oh you haven’t even met them! Elladan and Elrohir, the twins, they look a lot like me, but they are two thousand eight hundred and eleven. They are great, but sometimes they tell me I’m too young to do things, like ride out on patrol with them or attend a council meeting. It’s really fun to meet somebody who is my age!”

Twin brothers, apparently, though they did not seem to be any more mortal than the Elf the boy called Ada. Dwalin filed that bit of information away. At least the boy’s mother – from what he had said his actual mother! – seemed to still be alive. A mother, no father, but a father figure who was also the ruler of his home. The parallels between Estel and Fíli and Kíli were astonishing.

Just as Estel was telling him about a secret council meeting that he had managed to overhear by hiding up in the rafters above the meeting hall – yet another thing he had in common with Kíli – a sharp knock on the door interrupted them and the Elven guard announced Balin. In the blink of an eye, the boy had hidden the teeth and tools and was refilling a mug of water on the nightstand.

“I was just seeing to your brother’s comfort, Master Balin,” he said with a low bow and left the room. Dwalin did not want him to leave, much preferred his easy companionship over his brother’s looming presence.

“Oh Dwalin, what have you done,” Balin said, looking him up and down. Dwalin did not reply, but attempted to look dignified even though he was tucked into bed like a dwarfling and wrapped in bandages like an invalid. Next thing he knew, his brother was embracing him fiercely, half lifting him from the pillows and pressing their foreheads together. Dwalin hissed in pain, partially from his broken rib and aggravated wound, but mostly from the realisation that reality had caught up with him again. His brutal reality had walked in the door hand in hand with Balin, had been waiting for him all this time even as he recuperated in the company of the regal Elf lord and the delightful child.

“What were you thinking, you silly boy, you never are going to grow out of causing me no end of worry,” Balin chided, but his tone was gentle and Dwalin let himself relax into the embrace for a moment. This was reminiscent of better times, this was what their relationship had been like before any of this had happened, before the quest for Erebor and its aftermath had destroyed everything, or at the very least before it had destroyed Dwalin.

Balin told him that he cared, Balin told him that he worried, Balin told him that he loved him despite everything. It was good and it was comforting and really, Dwalin knew all of that. But it was not enough, not enough to make up for his failure to protect those who had been dearest to him, not enough to allow him to live with what he had done. He didn’t say that, but he did not say much else either when Balin asked about how he was. He was, that should be enough. Yes, there was pain, but it was inconsequential. Yes, he was healing, he would be ready for duty soon, whatever duty might mean now. Thorin, Fíli and Kíli were dead and Dís ignored him. Balin praised the Maker for keeping Dwalin alive, but Dwalin silently questioned His wisdom – to be alive was one thing, but a dwarf needed a purpose in life and he had lost the last shred that had remained of his. There was only Balin now, Balin who wanted him to live for whatever reason.

“I’ve not done a very good job of being your older brother,” Balin said with a sigh.

“You are a great brother,” Dwalin answered without even thinking. He really was a great brother. They had had many good years together, but now that did not seem to matter any more, it all paled in comparison to the blackness that was on his mind. But Balin was here. He had to hold on to that, Balin was here with him and Balin still cared for him. He had to hold on.

“I can never hope to be what Thorin was to you,” Balin said. “Nobody will ever replace him. But maybe... maybe I can help to keep his memory alive, to complete what he has started...”

Dwalin looked at him, saw his brother eager to make it all better, to make some sense of their situation. Unquenchable Balin, always scheming, always finding a way out, a way forward. But nothing that Thorin had started could be completed. Erebor was reclaimed, the line of Durin was destroyed. Thorin had done a pretty thorough job of both.

“Under his leadership we reclaimed the home of our fathers,” Balin continued. “And even though it ended disastrous, his quest has shown that it is possible, that we have the power to reclaim what was once ours. We could do it again and we could do it properly! We have learned our lessons from this. Once Erebor is stable and prospering, let’s apply ourselves to a new task to honour Thorin’s memory and to restore the Longbeards to their proper place just like he wanted to – let’s go out and reclaim Moria!”

Dwalin lurched upwards at that, pain be damned. He shouted, could not believe his brother’s stupidity. But Balin remained adamant. Think about it, it is an opportunity to leave our mark, an opportunity to prove our worth, you are a great warrior, honour Thorin by applying your skills to an even greater task. Dwalin tried to dissuade him, but Balin would not budge. He had a counterargument for everything Dwalin could think of, and finally Dwalin gave up, he just stopped, he had nothing more to say, there was nothing left for him to say or do. The last one who cared about him was desperate to throw himself down the throat of a balrog for some stupid notion of honour and some calling that apparently came with their lineage. A calling to die, nothing else!

“I’m tired,” Dwalin finally said, turned his head away and closed his eyes. He knew he could not sleep, but he had to get out of this somehow. He really just wanted to run away, or to knock Balin’s head against the wall until he saw some sense, but as appealing as these options were, neither one was possible at the moment. The only way out was to feign sleep. Balin sighed, remained perched on the edge of the bed for a good while longer as Dwalin tried to even out his breaths, but eventually he gave up.

Was his only purpose in life to watch those around him perish? Was he to be the one to record the deaths, to carry the bodies, to stand guard next to the dead forever? Was the only thing that came from loving another the excruciating pain following their death? Who else was he destined to fail? His kings, his princes, his queen, his brother... he had failed them all, he was still failing them now. He seemed to love only to lose.

Small hands were on his and he realised that he had covered his face. He moved his hands and found himself looking into very young and very concerned grey eyes. He had not meant to upset the boy. He was still so young, so innocent. _Just like Kíli was before you cut his throat._ Dwalin closed his eyes and drew up the blanket to cover his face. He could not look at the boy right now. _Soon, so soon he is going to die, or worse he is going to watch those he loves die._ Estel busied himself in the corner where the Elf had prepared his healing supplies. He was so young, but so kind, so helpful, so caring. _How long until those he cares for die? Until it’s not just a matter of changing bandages or fetching soup? Until he has to make decisions over life and death? Until he is broken and crushed?_ The lad poured water into a metal basin. Not another healing drought. There was nothing to be healed here, this was just reality that had barged back into the room.

Suddenly, the air seemed fresher, brighter somehow, like dipping into the cool water of a clear mountain spring after a long, hot day in the forge. A special smell spread through the room, one that Dwalin could not quite place, but it reminded him of coming home from a journey, of walking across the meadows by the river on a summer’s day when the sheets had been washed and lay spread out on the grass, gleaming white in the sunshine. He felt at peace, unburdened by the cares of the road. In his mind’s eye he saw the young dwarflings chase after each other, watched some stop in their play as they spotted him, and then Kíli was calling him.

Only it was not Kíli. Dark hair, but grey eyes and features more delicate than any dwarf. This time, Dwalin felt no disappointment, he merely felt content to be here with Estel, that gentle, caring boy who was smiling at him. Dwalin took another deep breath and miraculously it did not hurt his abused ribs. He could feel the fresh air flood through his body, renewing every part of it and for the first time in months he felt truly alive.

“What is this magic?” he asked.

“When the Black Breath blows and death's shadow grows and all lights pass, come athelas! Come athelas,” Estel replied in the sing-song voice of a nursery rhyme. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

Athelas. The name and that smell, that smell that was as unique as it was familiar. So was the name. Athelas. That was what those rangers had called their healing herb. It had had the same effect all those years ago; it cleared and calmed the mind, and could also be applied directly to wounds if he remembered correctly. He had asked them about it then, had asked why it was nothing but a weed to the Dwarves and the Hobbits, but among the Men it seemed a most potent remedy. Their leader had told him, had explained to him about the power that lay in their lineage, about the connection they had with the Númenórean plant. He looked at Estel with renewed interest, saw the boy in a completely different light now, and did indeed spot the bearing of those rangers in him. His eyes... his eyes were those of the young captain who had come to the Ered Luin to ask for aid. Many years ago... maybe three decades, long before Estel was even a thought on his parents’ minds. The young captain, his brother maybe? Or given the short span of years that were allotted to Men – his father?

It was not until much later that afternoon when Estel had left him to begrudgingly attend one of his lessons that Dwalin realised what that meant. If Estel was indeed the son of that young ranger, Arathorn had been his name as Dwalin now remembered, then Estel was no mere boy, no foundling in the House of Elrond, Estel was born to be the leader of the rangers, and from what Fíli had told him afterwards, the leader of much more than just that wandering folk[1].

Dís was in the room before he could do anything to stop her, surprising him, as he had been deep in thought and unprepared. Maybe that was a good thing, as he was still not sure if he desperately wanted to talk to her or never wanted to lay eyes on her again. She sat on the chair next to his bed and apologised with such sincerity that he instantly forgave her. Or maybe he had forgiven her long before then, maybe there had never been anything to forgive at all. Dwalin was not sure.

“I’m so sorry for the way in which I have treated you,” she said. “I should have noticed just how much you were toiling on our journey, what it took out of you to travel at such speed day after day. I apologise for my appalling behaviour towards you. I should have taken better care of you. Above all else, you are still my friend.”

Dwalin looked at her, took in her greying hair, the small wrinkles around her eyes, the tiredness and suffering that had been chiselled into her face, the worry and kindness in her gaze, but also the steel that was at her core. She wore a long tunic, simple, but clearly of Elvish make, soft and flowing like a dress. A rare sight indeed, particularly on the road where Dís, in the manner of their people, usually preferred to be dressed as a male.

“Are you?” she asked in a small voice and it took Dwalin a moment to remember her earlier words.

“Aye, that I am,” he said and reached out a hand, which she took gingerly.

“The way in which I...” she started, trailed off, then cleared her throat before trying again. “In Bree... I... I should not have spoken the way I did, I should never have... I had no right to assume, to make you...”

She was tugging her braids, a nervous habit that he had not seen in her for a long time. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and that seemed to steel her somehow, to help her say the words she wanted, needed to say.

“My apologies Dwalin. I treated you unfairly. It was my grief that spoke, my grief and... my frustration, my frustration with my own powerlessness.”

“You are never powerless,” he assured her without even stopping to think.

“You say that... but I cannot move in this world like a warrior could,” she replied. “With Thorin by my side I was respected and my council was valuable. Without him...”

“You are still exactly who you were before,” he told her.

“I’m not though,” she said. “For all that our race treasures its women, we are not valued very highly. We might be able to own property and to run a business on our own, but to be taken seriously, we need a dwarf to support and protect us. No matter my experience or my status, I’m still just as dependent on the males around me as the young daughter of Men who resides here.”

Dwalin wanted to tell her that support and protection were not as bad as she made them out to be, that there was no reason to face everything on her own, but he knew that she would not take that remark well, so he kept his silence. Dís grabbed his hand in both of hers and said:

“I would much rather depend on you than on anyone else.”

The words hung heavily in the air.

“Aye,” Dwalin finally confirmed. “And I will support and defend you for as long as I live.”

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, which earned him a rare smile.

“I rushed...” Dís said. “I shall give you more time, give both of us more time, to adapt and to heal. You are a special treasure to me, Dwalin, especially now, and I have learned now that I could not bear to lose you as well.”

“You won’t,” he reassured her. “I shall be by your side wherever this quest takes you.”

He had sworn this to Thorin and he had accompanied him to the very end. He would see to it that it was a better end for Dís. The old reasonable Dís had returned, the diplomat who took her time to come to well-considered conclusions. He felt much more comfortable with her now than he had in Bree.

The door flew open, clearly having been kicked, and Estel edged into the room, eyes fixed on the over-sized wooden tray he was carrying.

“I hope you like potato soup, Dwalin, ‘cause I’m not to leave you until you’ve eaten it all. I did snatch a sausage from the pantry though, so that should...” he suddenly stopped talking as he spotted Dís in the room, but recovered with remarkable speed and without spilling a single drop of soup. For a moment he seemed to consider bowing, which probably would not have been good news for the soup, but then he merely nodded his head as he greeted Dís.

“Good evening, Lady Dís, my apologies for barging in and interrupting your conversation. I shall return later,” he said, now in a much more formal tone.

“Good evening, dear boy,” Dís replied kindly and motioned for him to set down his burden. “Please stay. Your care for Dwalin is much appreciated. It is high time for me to join the others for our tea.”

With that she stood and their conversation was over just as suddenly as it had begun. She leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss on Dwalin’s brow.

“I shall be honoured,” she said. “To bear you such a lively son.”

 

[1]References a story I have yet to write. My next big project after No Sacrifice is going to tell the tale of how Dwalin came to know Arathorn and the other rangers. About 7,000 words in notes already.


	15. Chapter 15

“Today I learned about the Dwarves,” Estel said as he handed Dwalin a bowl of soup and a spoon. “I learned all about the Fathers of the Dwarves. Did you know there were seven of them? So that means that all of you really come from the same seven fathers! Pretty interesting, don’t you think?”

Dwalin nodded in agreement as he swallowed some of the hot potato soup. The boy was eager to learn. Apparently, despite his upbringing among the Elves, he was also rather free of the customary distrust and malcontent. It was a joy to be around him, a joy to watch him discover the world and its history.

“So which one are you?” Estel asked.

“Hmm?” Dwalin replied, not entirely sure what the boy was asking.

“Well, there’s seven Fathers and seven... you know like families of dwarves. Though I guess they must be pretty big families by now, because that was seriously a long time ago. Did you know that Aulë was not even supposed to make the Dwarves? He was a bit naughty, wasn’t he?”

Dwalin chuckled at that. He was no scholar, but he knew his fair bit of history and legend, and the enthusiasm the lad showed made the old stories suddenly seem a whole lot more interesting. The blessing of exploring the world through the eyes of somebody who was so many years his junior...

“Yes, I guess he was. But Aulë, or Mahal the Maker as we call him, was a craftsman, and a craftsman wants to use his skills, and after all, he did a pretty decent job, don’t you think?” he said and winked at the lad while trying to look as impressive and dignified as possible whilst in bed with a nasty injury.

Estel laughed, a sound as bright as the tinkling of a bell.

“Not bad!” he confirmed. “But Mahal must have lacked a bit of material when he was making you – maybe that’s why you are all so short!”

“Oi, I’ll show you short!” Dwalin shouted, but he was laughing as he chucked a pillow at the lad who nimbly dodged the missile. The soup had not been quite as agile and Estel was left to dab at a yellow stain on the crisp white linen.

“Urg, I’ll change that after you’re done,” he sighed, but quickly returned to his original enquiry. “So which one are you? Are you a Stonefoot or a Firebeard or an Ironfist or a Stifflock or a Blackbeard... ah, I mean a Blacklock or a Stiffbeard or a... aah, I’m missing some...”

“Broadbeams and Longbeards,” Dwalin added. “And I’m one of the latter.”

Estel regarded him sceptically. Dwalin wagged his spoon at him.

“Don’t...” he warned.

“Well, I’ve met your brother... so I guess it’s true for some...”

They continued in this vein, banter coming easily between the two of them. Was that any indication of the man Estel would be? One who was able to take life lightly, who would make a joke even when matters seemed bleak? Dwalin was unlikely to find out, unlikely to ever see the boy again. He should not become attached to him.

Once Dwalin had finished his meal, Estel helped him up to relieve himself. For all that the boy was thin as a rapier, he was certainly no weakling. Nevertheless, given how unsteady Dwalin still was, it was probably not the safest way of conducting these proceedings and they really should have called in one of the healers. But no matter how many times Dwalin had helped others with the same chores, it remained embarrassing to be on the receiving end of such services. Not so with Estel. There was no awkwardness there – it just seemed to come to the lad so naturally, he was so happy to take care of others. A young boy taking care of him when he was weak. It seemed so natural.

“So the Longbeards, that means you are from the family of Durin, right?” Estel asked once his charge was safely back in bed and when Dwalin nodded, he continued. “He is the one that always gets reborn, I think... so you know, is there one know? A real Durin? Have you ever met one?”

A Durin... The line of Durin... had he met one? Had he aye... Not Durin the Deathless reborn, but he had seen some true sons of Durin.

“How do you even know? I guess you can figure it out eventually, but as a baby you can’t really tell,” Estel mused. “Or is it like every 500 years or something? Like he is just checking in every now and again... Do you know when the next one is going to be born?”

Durin reborn... it was a question of lineage... a lineage that might come to a culmination in his son, a son with Durin’s blood on both sides... The lad continued to chatter away as he busied himself around the room, taking care of Dwalin like a son might. A son. The pride of his old age, the light in the dark cavern of his life. A son as caring and inquisitive as this lad. Estel. A son who was the heir to a heavy crown. A crown that would weigh him down, that would drive him to follow a destiny he might not want, he might not be able to bear. A son from a family that had been torn apart by death. There was no father here, no father that Estel could take care of, only a guardian and the obvious need for any other father figure that presented himself. And suddenly Estel became Fíli, became Thorin, became another who would sacrifice himself, another Dwalin would be unable to help... Estel... his son...

“It would be tremendous to be a warrior like that, you know a really magnificent leader. Just think of all the great battles...” Estel ruminated; completely unaware of the direction Dwalin’s thoughts had taken. Great battles... a leader... a leader of Dwarves, a leader of Men... leading them right up to the end... Dwalin could not bear it any longer. Estel was going to die, he was going to fail on his quest, he was Thorin, he was Fíli, he was Kíli, he was... dead.

“Out!” Dwalin bellowed. The lad stared at him blankly. “Get out of the room!”

“But I want to show you...”

“Out! Leave me alone! I... I’m tired.”

Estel looked unconvinced, but slowly withdrew a few steps.

“Should I get Ada...?” he asked tentatively.

“No! Just get out!”

Finally, the boy inched out of the door. Dwalin lay breathing heavily for a while. His thoughts went around in circles. The great warriors, the great battles... great indeed... This child knew nothing of life! Just like Kíli. He had known nothing of life either, and he never got a chance to learn about more than death... It was all death in the end; it would be the same for Estel... Durin the Deathless indeed... in the end everybody died, they died early and gruesomely, and Dwalin just watched; he was left to watch them die, he was the one who made them die... Dwalin drew the blanket up to cover his face. The soup stain was still there. Estel had wanted to take care of that, but who would take care of Estel? Certainly not Dwalin, Dwalin just took care of the dead, the ones he had already failed. His fingers closed around the small figurine in his pocket. As soon as Lord Elrond had allowed him to wear breeches, he had collected it from his pack and carried it with him even though he did not go anywhere. The small wooden dog was a reminder, a reminder of what he had done. It was broken, just like Dwalin was, a broken figurine in this game of death. With its broken back and useless limbs, the little dog was just like the one who had made it all those years ago... all those years before Dwalin had killed him...

Time had stopped. In the middle of all that mayhem, in the middle of the greatest battle, there was just Kíli, a warm weight in his arms, a young dwarf who was so dear to him, who now lay motionless, spine crushed, all strength gone from his limbs. Dwalin was stroking his face, mud and blood splattered over the sorry excuse of a beard. He watched the colourless lips form words, the voice so young, so faint, but so determined.

_Where is Fíli, Dwalin? I want Fíli. I want him to be here. I cannot do this without him. I want my Fíli._

_I can’t be without Fíli. I want to go. I want to run away. Help me. Help me run away._

_I cannot rule Erebor. I cannot even control my own body. How can I be king?_

_I don’t want to fight any more, Dwalin._

_Help me, Dwalin._

_Please, Dwalin._

_Dwalin..._

Kíli’s brown eyes, so trusting, so hopeful despite the pain he was in, despite what he had just asked of Dwalin, so certain that Dwalin would give him what he yearned for, would release him from a life he could not face, neither mentally nor physically. The life of a crippled king, bereft of his brother, dreading every moment, begrudging every breath he was forced to take.

_You’ll be fine, lad, you’ll be with Fíli and Thorin and you’ll be whole again. You’ll be fine. Stay strong, my lad, just a moment now and you’ll be free._

Nobody realised how much force it really took, how much strength to plunge the narrow dagger a good three fingers deep into the neck to severe the artery that carried blood to the brain. Thrust the point in, then cut sideways, careful not to injure the windpipe, to avoid drowning the victim in his own blood. There was still so much blood, spurting out of the wound, splattering across Dwalin’s face and body, mixing with the blood, both black and red that was already there. So much blood, within seconds it could have filled a large mug. So much blood, the life-force draining out of the one he loved as a son. Death was not instantaneous. Wide brown eyes were staring at him. Dwalin held their gaze calmly for the short while that it took for unconsciousness to claim the lad. A few more heartbeats, more blood spraying from the wound, then even that ceased. Dwalin pressed a gentle kiss to the sweaty brow, tasting the salt, the last trace of life. It was over.

Grey eyes staring up at him, the lad silently begging for mercy, for once too frightened to speak, crisp white sheets a sharp contrast with his dark hair. He put up a fight, thin limbs thrashing wildly, but Dwalin leaned over him, pinning the long arms, his large hand holding the lad’s chin, pushing it upwards, revealing the pale skin of his throat. The legs continued to struggle, knees colliding with his back, but it did not deter him.

_You’ll be fine. Stay strong, my lad, just a moment now and you’ll be free._

Thrust the point in, then cut sideways, careful not to injure the windpipe, to avoid drowning the victim in his own blood. Thick, bright red droplets spraying from the wound, a long line of blood drawn across the clean white sheets. So bright, so red, the life-force draining out of the one who had shown him what having a son might be like. Long moments of panic, a one-sided fight, then the movements grew fainter, less coordinated, and something broke in the expressive grey eyes. Dwalin pressed a gentle kiss to the lad’s brow, one last good wish. It was over.

Blue eyes staring up at him, friendly, trusting, too young, too innocent to have felt anything but unconditional love; unaware of what his future held. Dwalin leaned over the cradle, brushed a gentle finger over the lad’s head, whispered sweet nothings into his ear, breathed in the sweet, comforting smell of the baby, then carefully gathered the tiny arms on the small chest, holding them in place with his thumb while his fingers lifted the lad’s chin. The boy smiled, chuckled, blue eyes shining.

_You’ll be fine. Stay strong, my lad, just a moment now and you’ll be free._

Thrust the point in, then cut sideways, careful not to injure the windpipe, to avoid drowning the victim in his own blood. It was all so much smaller, so much more delicate, but Dwalin was even more desperate to make it quick, to make it, if not clean at least as painless as possible. Mahal let him die without fear! The rosy lips opened in an astonished O as the tip of the dagger sliced through soft tissue. A fine spray of blood, not much, but still so much in comparison to the size of the body. So bright, so red, the life-force draining out of his son. Blue eyes closed. Durin the Deathless no more. Dwalin pressed a gentle kiss to the lad’s brow, the last deed he would ever do as a father, the last service he could give his son. It was over.

He was clawing at his face, blunt nails digging deep into the skin. He was desperate to tear out the eyes that had seen such carnage, desperate to eliminate the memory of it. Tear out his eyes, cut off his hands, but keep on living, keep on suffering, keep on repenting. Death was a mercy. He was not worthy of such mercy, he was Dwalin, he was a murderer, a kin slayer, the one who killed babes in their cradles. He was Dwalin and no mercy should ever reach him.

Hands on his arms, restraining him. Dwalin lunged upwards, but his move had been anticipated. His attacker was strong, pinning him down, and he found himself at a disadvantage. Dwalin kicked out with his legs, but in an instant a heavy weight had settled on them, his attacker apparently now sitting on his knees.

“Calm yourself, man, wake up,” a voice said, stern, but not unkind.

Dwalin’s eyes snapped open and he found himself lying on a soft bed, staring into a dimly lit chamber. Rivendell, the House of Elrond. Estel. The lads. He had...

He barely had time to turn his head to his left before his stomach cramped and he noisily vomited over the side of the bed. He was a warrior, he had seen so much blood, had waded through it at Azanulbizar, had seen the mutilated corpses the orcs left behind, had killed so many himself, and it had never made him queasy. But it had never been like this.

The one holding him down slid off the bed and stood next to him.

“It was a dream. You are safe here,” he said and Dwalin recognised Elrond, looked up at the tall Elf who met his glance, and seemed to look into the very stone of his soul. “You are safe,” he repeated. “And so are they.”

Dwalin sank back onto the pillows, breathing heavily. Safe, they were safe. He had not killed his son. He had not killed Estel. But he had killed Kíli. He was exhausted, heart hammering like he had been in a fight, pain flaring up in his side. There was no safety, not for those burdened with a destiny, with a fate that would lead them through strife and struggle as they attempted to fulfil the promises their line was supposed to hold. There was no reprieve.

He tried to control his breathing. Elrond quickly moved around the room, efficiently cleaning up the mess Dwalin had made. It was ridiculous, an Elf lord taking care of him, an ordinary dwarven warrior, though probably not quite as strange as Estel’s care. Estel. The one he had just murdered in his dreams. Elrond mixed some herbs with fresh water and handed Dwalin a mug with instructions to rinse his mouth, then handed him another draught.

“To combat the pain,” he said and Dwalin nodded his thanks.

“It is bearable,” he replied. What was on his mind was not. The Elf seemed to know that.

“I can heal your body,” he said. “But you yourself need to allow your soul to heal.”

Dwalin huffed. “There is no soul left to heal.”

“I doubt that,” Elrond replied evenly, stoking the fire in the hearth.

“You do not understand,” Dwalin insisted. “With all due respect, my Lord, but I’m a warrior, I have done things you gentle folk could not even imagine in your darkest dreams.”

The Elf lowered his head in acknowledgement, but then brushed back the wide sleeves of his grey cloak to reveal his arms, pale skin covered in a crisscrossing pattern of silver scars, long-healed cuts from swords and axes.

“I too have fought in many wars,” he stated calmly. “In fact it was a war that first brought me to Imladris. In the war my people waged against Sauron, I was tasked with protecting Eregion. I failed, Eregion was destroyed with all that that entails, and Sauron’s forces surrounded us. I stand before you now only because of the timely intervention of your own forefather, Durin III. We would have perished without him, but were able to retreat to this valley while our foe pursued Durin to Moria. Had I not failed in my task, many lives of Dwarves and Elves could have been saved.”

He stood motionless, bracing himself against the table in the corner, bowing his head in obvious pain. Durin III... that had been four, maybe five thousand years ago. That must be a considerable time, even for an Elf, but Elrond clearly still felt the effects of his deeds from so long ago. Dwalin had not thought it possible to feel compassion for an Elf, but he could sympathise with this one.

“I fought at Khazad-dûm,” he said. “I was young at the time, but I was there at the Battle of Azanulbizar. We won that day, but we lost so much at the same time...”

I lost so much. I lost my innocence, I became a kin slayer, and I proved that I was nothing but a murderer when all those around me were being praised for killing. Azanulbizar was my first great failure. He did not say it, but the Elf seemed to understand. He turned, but did not approach, leaning heavily against the table. He seemed tired, if an Elf could be tired.

“Our people seem to have that in common,” he said with a sigh. “We teach fighting, but not killing, and more importantly we do not teach how to survive the killing. We are left alone with that burden.”

“And there’s me thinking your lot had it all figured out,” Dwalin said with a snort.

The Elf actually smiled. “Much has been written on the subject, on guilt and forgiveness, on shame and conscience, and I have read it all and discussed the writings with their authors. But I find there is a wide chasm between the ink on the page and the blood on my hands,” he said, looking at his hands as if there was actual blood on them. Dwalin knew that feeling.

“I have killed without need,” he said, not entirely sure why he was volunteering this information. “I have killed those who were already injured, those who had been entrusted to my care.”

There was no judgement in Elrond’s eyes as he nodded.

“The most difficult act of them all is to let those we care for pass when they are beyond our skill to heal,” he said, and then drew in a deep breath before continuing. “My wife was captured by orcs and tortured, I was able to heal her body, but... she does not dwell in this world any more.”

He said the last words in a rush, then turned away briskly, grabbing some of the utensils sitting on the table, aggressively crushing herbs in a mortar, making more noise than Dwalin had ever heard from him or any other Elf. He took a while to take in what Elrond had just told him. So he knew, he knew what it was like to fail, to be unable to save those he loved, to ‘ _let them pass’_ as he had put it. _‘Let them pass’_. The phrase took root and grew in his mind. _I murdered Kíli. I let Kíli pass._ Both were true, but one infinitely worse than the other. He thought about Elrond’s words. The Elf had confessed the unthinkable, he too had let somebody pass. His wife, how horrible.

“How do we live, how do we go on in a world like this?” Dwalin asked. The clanging and banging stopped.

“I ask myself that whenever I send somebody outside of this valley,” Elrond said slowly. “I can create a safe haven here, but I cannot always protect them in the world out there. Seeing the world change and yet the same hurts prevail, it makes me tired, it makes me think that all of our efforts have been for naught.” He faced Dwalin once more, folded his arms in front of his chest, looking determined, and his voice was full of warmth when he spoke again. “But then I look at my children, I see their unquenchable spirit, their zest for life, I look at Estel, and he gives me hope, hope for a better future where our sacrifices truly count.”

There was silence for a moment, both of them breathing, savouring the feeling of being alive. They were warriors, they were fighting for something they only ever caught fleeting glimpses of, but they knew they must fight, if not for their own sake, at least for the sake of those they cared for.

“I know who he is,” Dwalin finally said. “Estel, I know who he is and why he is here.”

“He is my brother’s heir,” Elrond said evenly, calmly pouring boiling water over another one of his foul-tasting herbal concoctions. “I believe it is quite common amongst dwarves to have a good relationship with one’s nephews.”

“When the Black Breath blows and death's shadow grows and all lights pass, come athelas! Come athelas,” Dwalin recited. That elicited a reaction from the Elf. His head jerked up, face visibly paling and his voice was toneless when he replied.

“Life to the dying, in the king’s hand lying...” Elrond completed the verse.

“It is true then,” Dwalin said. “He is the heir to the throne of Men.”

“You did not know...”

“I had my suspicions. I knew his father,” Dwalin replied, watching Elrond arch a delicate eyebrow. “We met many years ago in a land called the Shire.”

“So you were one of the Dwarves...”

“Fíli and Kíli the others,” Dwalin confirmed.

“Arathorn grew up here as well, as did his father and his father before him,” Elrond said. “You must be wondering... my brother and I, being of half-elven descent, had to make a choice... he chose mortality.”

“And ever since... you have watched his heirs live... and die,” Dwalin concluded, a soft hiss escaping him. “How...?”

“With much pain,” Elrond confirmed, handing him a mug of steaming tea and sitting down on the chair at Dwalin’s bedside. “I watch them grow, and then I watch them go out into a world that I know is going to kill them.”

“How can you bear it?”

“They call it the gift of foresight,” Elrond said. “In my experience it more closely resembles a curse. But advance knowledge should not make us restrict people in their choices. While we might council and curb our own involvement, ultimately, we must support the decisions of those dear to us, even if they go against our better judgement.”

They sat in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Dwalin’s hand clutched the broken dog in his pocket. _We must support the decisions of those dear to us, even if they go against our better judgement._ We must.

“Drink,” Elrond finally said, nodding towards the mug in Dwalin’s hand. “It is going to help you sleep and keep the dreams at bay.”

 

......

 

While Elrond gently washed and dried the skin around the suture, Estel sat cross-legged on the floor beside the bed.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he said earnestly. “I had stitches removed last year and it’s not that painful. Ada is quite good. I didn’t even cry.”

“I’ll be just fine, lad,” Dwalin reassured him. He looked up at Elrond who watched the scene with tenderness in his eyes and saw in the Elf the same fondness for the innocence of the boy that he himself felt. They were both warriors, and both were hoping that it might be a few more years before young Estel’s definition of pain would inevitably shift to events far beyond the removal of a bit of thread.

Elrond picked up some surgical forceps from a bowl of hot water and bent to his task. Dwalin felt a bony little hand sneak its way into his, squeezing his thumb for reassurance. The boy put his head on the edge of the bed, as close to Dwalin as he could get, while his alert grey eyes followed his foster-father’s every move. The grip he had on Dwalin’s finger tightened and Dwalin gently stroked Estel’s hand as he felt the slight pull of the stitches being removed.

They left the next morning. The warg’s teeth were hanging around Estel’s neck on a thin leather thread. Dwalin handed him a small present, a little wooden figure he had worked on whenever Estel attended his lessons. It was not as elegant as a work of Elves might have been, but the boy beamed when he thanked him for it and hugged him fiercely. It was a stallion, proud, fierce, adventurous and unbroken, just as Estel would hopefully be for many years to come.


	16. Chapter 16

Rivendell had been a place of healing, not just for Dwalin. When she looked back over the valley in which the first green of spring was just appearing and brightly coloured croci were dotting the earth, Dís felt refreshed and calmer than she had since the dreadful news had reached her in the Ered Luin. The time spent in the Elven refuge had been a respite, a time to gather her thoughts. She appreciated the kindness and hospitality the Elves had shown them. They had been desperate when they got here, all but despairing for Dwalin’s life. Balin and Dís had decided to make for Rivendell with all haste when Dwalin had collapsed, to the malcontent of their traveling companions from the Iron Hills. Was the life of a brother worth so little in Dáin’s kingdom? Or was it merely the life of one that stood in their way that they did not value? Either way, Dís found the Elves to be more humane than the majority of Dwarves in her company. There were some raised eyebrows in the beginning, but the Lord of these Halls welcomed them graciously and personally cared for Dwalin, which in Dís’ eyes just about made up for the fact that he was an Elf. She had the inborn distrust of Elves that her kind carried, but saw no reason for her brother’s animosity towards an entire race. She did not apologise for her brother and his companions, but made sure that there was no repeat of their despicable behaviour. A group she lead would not abuse anyone’s hospitality.

Elrond had apologised for the absence of his daughter, expressing his hope that Dís would still find his house acceptable even without a hostess to make her feel welcome. It was a pleasant surprise to be recognised as a dwarrowdam even in her travel clothes. Dís did not mention that she had not been treated with such reverence and care since the Fall of Erebor, but she thoroughly enjoyed being made to feel like a princess, a queen maybe. When it became evident that they were going to stay for a while – Dís did not tolerate any argument, she would not depart for Erebor without Dwalin – a young woman knocked at the door to Dís’ chamber and delivered a simple yet beautiful dress.

“If you will allow me, I shall make the necessary alterations,” she said shyly and curtseyed. Dís blinked in surprise. She had always made and altered her own clothes, had not had anybody else to attend to the task since her earliest youth.

“Thank you for your labour and care,” she said and beckoned the woman to come inside. It was the beginning of an unlikely companionship. A queen of Dwarves and a daughter of Men sitting together and talking in the halls of an Elven lord. The young woman, Gilraen, revealed little about herself other than that Elrond was a distant relation of her husband and had taken her and her son in after his death. As widows and mothers of sons they had plenty to talk about without touching upon more political matters.

Ori had discovered the incredibly well-stocked library Elrond kept and spent most of his time thumbing through ancient tomes and conversing with the Elven scholars. To their great surprise there was even a Khuzdul section and Ori was able to copy numerous passages that supported Dís’ claim to the throne, as well as some limited work regarding the legalities of remarriage. He even found an example of remarriage among Elves though it did not seem to have brought the family concerned much good fortune. Ori found pleasure in his work and Dís felt that he regarded it as an opportunity to make himself useful, to prove to himself that his life had not been spared without a reason.

After much grumbling, even the five from the Iron Hills settled into a somewhat comfortable routine. Dís had given them the choice to continue the journey on their own, but wise old Svigur had declined, rightly preferring to keep an eye on her, even though he obviously disguised that as concern for her safety. Weeks on the road and now some days of forced idleness had shaped their group into some sort of fragile unit. Ivladi and An mostly kept to themselves, but were polite whenever Dís spoke to them. Hrungnir was as ill-tempered as ever, but could not entirely hide the fact that he thoroughly enjoyed a soft bed and decent food after the rather less pleasant nights of camping in the wilderness. Svigur was cunning, but a very pleasant companion as long as the matter of succession was not mentioned, and Dís understood why Balin liked him. The one she could not grow to like was Thorin. The boy was clearly out of his depth among all of these unreasonably tall and graceful creatures and tried to mask his discomfort with a façade of arrogance, which earned him no favour with his companions and to his utter annoyance did not interest the Elves in the least. At least not until their host’s sons returned from a patrol.

They were twins, so similar in appearance and temperament that Dís was unable to tell them apart, but she certainly recognised the smirks they exchanged the first time they encountered Thorin and his haughty manner at the dinner table – the sort of smirks that would have earned her own sons a very stern look. They addressed him as Lord Thorin, which caused him to immediately regard them as friends, then teased him mercilessly, puns flying back and forth that went far over the heads of Thorin and his ever-protective uncle Hrungnir. Dís did not intervene. Balin and Svigur took turns hiding smiles in their sleeves or napkins. The following day the twins took Thorin out for some friendly sparring during which they embarrassed the rather clumsy lad quite thoroughly but in such a perfectly courteous manner that not even Hrungnir could find anything to complain about. At their evening meal, Dís caught a parental glare from Elrond when one of his sons cheekily enquired after Thorin’s well-being and attempted to set up a fencing tournament for the next day. The two Elves seemed a perfect mirror image of what Fíli and Kíli would have been like with their pampered cousin. To Thorin’s great misfortune, they were also the ones that Elrond had selected as their guides for the way through the mountains.

There was some discontent, some mumblings about not needing a child minder on their journey and certainly no beardless Elven guides, but once Dwalin had recovered enough to be able to comfortably ride on, Dís did not want to lose any more time and the sons of their host proved to be very knowledgeable scouts, useful to have about the camp and most importantly skilled in the healing arts and thus able to see to Dwalin’s comfort. Dís would not let him hide his wounds again and was glad for the Elves help in keeping an eye on him. He was dear to her, more so than she had realised before. If his ill health had shown her anything it was just how much she wanted him, needed him at her side. She had doubted his loyalty, but maybe it was her approach to leadership that she should have doubted instead.

The Elves bade them farewell as soon as they had crossed the Misty Mountains – for once entirely without incident although the melting snow had made some of the paths very treacherous indeed. As the two of them turned back, Dís and her company continued ever eastwards across the plains towards Mirkwood. They made good progress and spirits were high as they entered the last stage of their journey. Dís rode next to Dwalin, content to enjoy his silent companionship, true to her word to not press the issue of marriage. Who would have thought he was such a stickler for propriety.

The ground was covered in gold. Not the hard, cold gold that had driven her brother into madness, but a dense carpet of bright golden flowers stretching as far as the eye could see. Prickly gorse bushes covered the heath setting it ablaze with colour as it threw off its dull winter mantle in those early spring days. Dís savoured the sight. She had rarely lived underground and found she relished flowers and sunlight more than most Dwarves. If this was to be her last extended taste of being above ground, she was determined to enjoy it. The smell alone was intoxicating, a sweet, heady aroma, that held promises of heat and sunshine. This was a gold that she could indulge in without fear.

“When gorse is out of bloom, kissing is out of season,” Dís said to Dwalin with a smirk, recalling an old saying. She puckered her lips and blew him a kiss, watching him blush as he grumbled. His beard had grown in nicely, almost entirely grey now, but as thick and bushy as ever. She continued to tease him, trying to draw him out of his shell. He was in a less sombre mood than before and clearly feeling a lot better, but he was still unusually quiet and formal around her. He seemed to blame himself for the deaths of Fíli, Kíli and Thorin even more than Ori did. He had been so close to them, like a brother to Thorin and a much-loved honorary uncle to the boys, she knew he had done all he could to make sure they were safe. Dwalin was a good dwarf, and Dís wanted him to recognise that, wanted him to join her in shaping a future in which the sacrifices of the past became fuel for their hopes and dreams.

The most peculiar lodging on their journey they found in the house of the skinchanger Beorn. He appeared as a Man, but one so tall, muscular and hairy that he almost seemed to be a bear even in this form. As if his enormous wooden hall, populated by vastly oversized animals, had not been queer enough, it also harboured two more guests – the wizard Gandalf and Bilbo, Thorin’s chosen burglar.

The Hobbit embraced Balin, Ori and Dwalin like long-lost friends, but staggered backwards in shock when he laid eyes upon Dís.

“Dís at your service,” she said, smiling and bowing.

His eyes went even wider and his voice was unnaturally high when he replied.

“Bilbo Baggins at your and your family’s.”

The pain that polite expression sparked was sharp, but she suppressed it and kept her voice even as she answered.

“From what I have been told, you have already been of great service to my brother.”

“Your brother... you... you have your... your brother’s bearing,” Bilbo stammered and Dís finally understood the source of his concern. She knew of course that she was the spitting image of Thorin and many who were not Dwarves found it difficult to tell them apart. On occasion, Men had mistaken her for him when she was younger and she had seldom found it necessary to enlighten them. Currently she was dressed in rough travel gear, sporting a neatly trimmed beard and wearing her hair in Thorin’s style, even tying her braids with his clasps that Dwalin had given her. No wonder, the Hobbit had been overwhelmed with her appearance! To him it must feel like Thorin had risen from the grave. From the tales Balin and Dwalin had told her about the way her brother had treated his burglar, that must be a truly terrifying prospect for the poor creature.

“I ensure you, I mean you no harm, Master Baggins, and thoroughly regret the pain that Thorin has caused you,” she told him, trying to make her voice sound warm, as little as Thorin’s as possible, and giving him a kind smile.

“Yes, yes, of course the... the pain, yes indeed...” the Hobbit replied, wringing his hands and looking at his woolly toes. “I beg your pardon, Lady Dís, I forget my manners. My sincere condolences for the losses you have suffered.”

He held his hand out and she shook it. He looked up at her with such deep sadness in his eyes that she put all decorum aside and embraced him. It took some moments for the Hobbit to relax, he was awkwardly stiff in her arms, but finally he nestled his head against her shoulder and drew in a few deep, steadying breaths.

Later that night, he joined Dís for a smoke outside. They sat in silence for a while before Bilbo spoke.

“We parted in friendship, you know... Thorin and I... he took back all of his harsh words and deeds.”

“Did you find it in yourself to forgive him?” Dís asked. “I understand that he threatened your life.”

“He did... but I think I understand now... it was the gold speaking through him, the greed that consumed him.”

“It is the curse of our line,” Dís sighed.

“You know in the end... I mean, I was... I spoke to him just before he... he went to sit beside his fathers... and he was himself again, he was free of greed and vanity. And he actually told me just before... he told me ‘If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world’ and I think he believed it.”

“Repentance... or as close to it as we are likely to witness from a Dwarf as stone-headed as Thorin,” Dís mused. “I believe you are right, Master Baggins, if times had been different and the fates kinder to him, he might have valued other things above gold, he might have been able to overcome that curse.”

Bilbo drew on his pipe, lost in contemplation. Dís thought about her brother. He should never have gone to reclaim Erebor, but then again, if he had not done so, the Mountain might never have been reclaimed at all. Dís found that preferable to the price that her family had paid for it, but knew enough of politics to understand the importance Erebor held for all of the Dwarves.

“They did,” Bilbo said, interrupting her thoughts. He cleared his throat. “Fíli and Kíli, they overcame that curse. They were... they did not even look at the treasure... everyone else did, but they just sat in a corner and played their harps.”

Dwalin had told her as much, but it was a relief to hear the same story from another. She closed her eyes, emotions overcoming her. They were good boys, such good boys. And they were dead.

“They had their treasure already,” Bilbo continued. “They had each other. Kíli was always there to support Fíli, to help him and to make him smile, and Fíli did everything to keep Kíli safe, and everyone else as well.”

If only somebody had kept him safe! If anyone had helped Kíli at the end! She would gladly hand the crown to the one who did.

“I taught them that,” she said. “It was the last thing I ever told them, keep your brother safe, support your brother. Those were my last words to them, my sons, the mithril of my heart.”

The Hobbit gingerly touched his breast as if his heart pained him at her words. The mithril of her heart had touched the hearts of many others

“I only wish I had taught them to stay alive, to not throw their lives away needlessly,” she continued.

Bilbo dropped his pipe and turned to face her.

“You did,” he said, voice choked with emotion. “None of their acts were needless. They fell defending not the Mountain nor the gold, but Thorin, their beloved uncle, and even more so, the lives and freedom of all of us living in the North. May the peace they secured last for many generations!”

 

..........

 

The Woodelves of Mirkwood were decidedly less pleasant hosts than their kin in Rivendell. Their flamboyant king struck Dís as undependable. He continuously seemed to smirk knowingly at her and there was no deciphering of his thoughts.. There was some semblance of companionship between the Elves and Dwarves though. They had fought together, had bled together, had died together in front of the Lonely Mountain, and had ultimately won a battle together. A great battle, as Dís kept reminding herself, one that was fought to defend the lives and freedom of all of their people. These shared experiences and shared concerns provided a background for their conversations, but much more openly expressed was Thranduil’s desire to see Dís on the throne of Erebor. He called her Queen and referred to her reign as if it was already established. It flattered her, but she also questioned his motives. Did he want her to reign because he thought her weak? Because he saw it as his chance to gain undue influence over Erebor? Did it once again come down to her lack of an heir? The Elven king was a useful ally, most certainly, one with a powerful army to boot, but not one she felt she could entirely trust.

Supper was a tense affair and Dís was glad when Thranduil finally excused himself and she could retreat to the chambers that had been assigned to her. She had not dared to leave the Elf in the company of any of the others for fear that they might sway him and conspire against her. Maybe it was paranoia, but she truly did not need any more opponents.

As usual, Dwalin left with her, shadowing her every step. He would not leave her alone, not here, not now. He was still favouring his injured leg and was also weaving a little. For all that could be said against Thranduil, his taste in wine was exquisite and several of the Dwarves, more used to ale, might have had their glasses refilled a few too many times. Dís had watched her own drinking carefully, but Dwalin had apparently not done likewise. She linked arms with him, as much to support him as to be close to him. Dwalin was good, Dwalin was safe, and he was one remarkable constant in her life that had taken so many painful twists and turns.

“Good night, Dís,” he said when they reached her door. “It was good to see you treated like the queen you are tonight.”

“I’m no queen yet,” she replied cautiously.

“You act like you are,” he said with a smile. “Thranduil recognises it and Balin and Svigur are starting to do the same. It makes me glad.”

His tongue was heavy, but he was not slurring his words just yet. He also seemed to be in a relatively content and talkative state for once. Maybe the drink had relaxed him enough to be somewhat more receptive to her plans.

“Would you care to join me for a nightcap?” Dís asked. Dwalin frowned and doubt clouded his face for a few tense heartbeats, but then he seemed to steel himself and he nodded his head, following her inside.

Dís removed her jacket and shawl, then filled two glasses with wine from the decanter that stood on the ornate mantelpiece, setting them down on the low table and sitting down on the plush divan that stood beside it. Dwalin still stood awkwardly by the door, biting his lips. She beckoned him over and he slowly approached, perching gingerly on the very end of the settee.

“Come and sit with me for a while,” she said, handing him one of the glasses. “We have much to talk about... Let’s drink to your returning good health!”

“And yours,” Dwalin mumbled, not meeting her eyes as they brought their glasses together. Dwalin drained his in one large gulp

“I was afraid,” Dís said. “I was afraid to lose you the day we arrived at Rivendell... I could never have forgiven myself for parting with you the way we did in Bree. You mean so much to me and your illness really showed me that. It should not have been necessary; I should never have forgotten the value of our friendship in the first place. Can you really forgive me, Dwalin?

“Aye,” he said without hesitation. “You mean a great deal to me as well... But Dís... Dís, I need to...”

“I know, Dwalin,” she reassured him, reaching out for his hand, which he immediately withdrew from her grasp. “And I’ll give you all the time that you need, I won’t pressure you into anything. I care for you, Dwalin, and I would like you by my side in this difficult time... I know I can be the queen that our people need... Can you give me your support, Dwalin?”

“Aye, Dís, you are my queen already,” he replied and finally looked her in the eye. “But you need to know...”

“I know it won’t be easy,” Dís completed the sentence for him. “Politics are a dirty business and Dáin is in a position of strength. But it can be done; nobody can doubt my right to the throne and my willingness to give my all for it. I am going to win Erebor for myself and for our line.”

“Our line,” Dwalin echoed.

“Our line... that you will help me carry on to even greater heights,” Dís confirmed. It was so encouraging to finally see eye to eye with Dwalin, to have her most loyal supporter back at her side.

It was all a bit much for Dwalin, apparently, as he buried his face in his hands and slunk forwards in his seat. Dís wanted to stroke his back, wanted to embrace him, but keeping in mind his previous rejection, she resisted the temptation. Slowly, slowly. She did not want to frighten him away again. Instead she reached for the silver brush that lay on the chest in the corner and started to brush her hair in long, slow strokes. At first he did not notice, apparently completely lost in thought, but Dís just kept brushing her long raven locks. There was more grey now, but she knew her hair was still beautiful, long, strong and slightly wavy as it was. It had been the envy of many a dwarrowdam for as long as she could remember. She gathered her hair and brushed it over one shoulder, then the other. She had never done this with anyone other than her husband in the room. Dwalin still did not stir. It was not until she removed Thorin’s clasps and put them down on the table with a soft ‘clink’, that Dwalin looked up. She ran her fingers teasingly through the loosened braids, gently unravelling them. He stared at her, obviously enthralled by her open display of affection. Now that she finally had a captive audience, she used the hairbrush again, slowly, gently grooming her hair until it was gleaming.

“Dís,” Dwalin said, voice rough. “I need to...”

“Shhh, I know,” Dís replied with a smile, but he interrupted her.

“No, I need to... I need to tell you something,” he said, swallowing heavily and clasping her hand. Then he awkwardly slid off the divan, struggling to force his barely-mended leg into submission. He was kneeling in front of her, those stone grey eyes staring up at her. Dís gasped. Finally!

“You know, in the battle, when Fíli... when Fíli fell... I was... with him at the end. And Kíli... Kíli had been... hit by that... morningstar. He was... I thought he was dead. When I got to him...” Dwalin said haltingly.

“I know, but it was not your fault,” Dís assured him. She would not let his guilt ruin this moment.

“It was!” Dwalin shouted, or would have if his voice had not been so hoarse all of a sudden.

“You did your best,” Dís told him. “You could not save him, but it was not your fault!”

“It was,” Dwalin repeated, then drew in a deep breath. “I killed Kíli,” he said tonelessly.

Dís was stunned by what sounded like a confession, but automatically brushed it away.

“You did not. The morningstar...”

“The orc crushed his spine,” Dwalin said, suddenly adopting the mechanic tone of a soldier reporting to his superior. “Kíli was awake when I finally reached him. There was probably internal bleeding and his back was clearly broken. He... he could not move his arms or his legs. He was... completely paralysed. But his injuries did not kill him. I killed Kíli. I cut his throat.”

“No!” Dís shouted and threw herself backwards, jerking her hands out of his grasp and staring at him with wide eyes. “Why?”

“Because he asked me to.”

“He... what??”

“He asked me to help him, to end his suffering.”

Time seemed to slow down in Dís’ mind. The tales he had told her about Azanulbizar, about Fundin... _to end his suffering_... _cut his throat_... his reluctance... his overwhelming guilt... his battle dreams... _I’m tired, I’m tired of war..._ It could not be!

“He was so young, so full of life, he never would have...” she said, trying everything in her power to halt the complete collapse of all she held dear.

“He had watched Fíli and Thorin... he knew he was to be King under the Mountain and he could not face that future, not without the use of his limbs, not without his brother,” Dwalin explained, but his words were hollow and meaningless.

“He would never...”

“He was not himself any more... he did, Dís.”

To hear her name on his lips suddenly stung like fire. It could not be. Not Dwalin. Dwalin was quiet, loyal and strong, not just physically. He had always been there for her. Unwavering. Stoic. With no regard for his own needs. Not Dwalin. Never. It could not be.

“How could you?” she asked.

“He begged me,” Dwalin said, still cowering on the floor. “I held him... till the end... it was... it was quick, Dís.”

“How could you?” she repeated, shouting now. “How could you take his word for it? He could have lived! He was just a child! He had just lost his uncle and his brother! He was in the middle of a battle! How could he make that decision? How could you take that as consent??”

She was standing and did not even know how. She stared at the shrunken figure of a Dwarf at her feet. She felt nothing but contempt for him.

“He was broken, he was lost, he was... he really did not want to live... I helped, I just...” Dwalin made a stumbling attempt to justify his horrid deed.

“You murdered him,” she spat at him. Uttering the words aloud was like a dagger straight to the heart.

“Aye,” he breathed, condemning himself.

Dís staggered backwards until she reached the door.

“Guards!” she shouted as loud as she could. “Guards!!”


	17. Chapter 17

He had killed him. Dwalin had killed Kíli. Killed Kíli. Kíli... He could still be alive... he had been alive... and Dwalin had killed him. Killed him.

Dís stared at him in horror and withdrew as far as she possibly could, until her back was pressed against the wall. She gasped for air. She could not breathe. He reached out for her from his position on the ground, reached out an arm as if he wanted to grab her, and attempted to get onto his feet. His back collided with the low table and the delicate thing toppled sending the glasses crashing to the floor, blood-red wine splattering everywhere. The noise mingled with Dís’ pained scream. She had to scream, it was too much.

That Dwarf had killed her son, her baby, her precious little Kíli. How could she not have known? How could she have been so blind? All those weeks when she had thought that they were united in their grief, he had been mocking her. Why had she believed him? He had killed her Kíli. The one she had wanted to be the father of her third son was the murderer of her second. She looked at the crumpled figure in utter disgust. How dare he look like he was the one who had been hurt! He was a murderer, a cold-blooded killer, a monster!

She could not breathe. She gasped for air. Her throat... her throat... Kíli’s throat... he had cut Kíli’s throat. She clawed at the collar of her shirt, desperate for more space. The fabric was soft, but it still seemed to choke her. With a desperate strength she managed to tear it all the way down to her chest, revealing her white undertunic. Air. She had to breathe.

Steps on the corridor and then the door burst open, crashing into the wall with a bang. Dís slumped against the doorframe, stumbling, falling into the arms of the one who came rushing into the room.

“Lady Dís?”

Not an Elf. A Dwarf. Svigur. Behind him Hrungnir appeared, breathing heavily, a wide-eyed Thorin trailing behind.

“Lady Dís, what happened?” Svigur asked. “We were on the way to our chambers and we heard...”

Dís could not answer, was still gasping for air, staring aimlessly into the distance as she clung to the old Dwarf’s shoulders. He killed Kíli. He killed Kíli. Nothing else mattered. He killed Kíli. The world consisted only of that thought. He killed Kíli.

“What is going on here?”

Two Elves appeared, blond, thin, and impossibly tall, lightly armoured and carrying long spears. Dís was being pushed back into the room, but she tried to resist, did not want to enter it again, not with _him_ there.

“Dwalin?”

She looked up ever so slightly and saw him still there, still cowering in front of the sofa. Suddenly she was crying, loud, ugly sobs shaking her bent frame. _He_ had done this to her. He had killed Kíli. Svigur patted her back uselessly.

“Did you call for the guard?”

“She did. We were just passing when we heard...”

“There was a scream and some commotion...”

“Aye, we heard it.”

“What happened?”

“Dís?” Svigur asked hesitantly, holding her away from his chest. “What happened? Why did you scream?”

His eyes and voice were full of concern. He surveyed her appearance and she could tell that his glance stopped at her dishevelled braids and her ruined shirt. She hurriedly tried to gather the torn fabric, to not stand in front of all of these men in her undertunic. She attempted to speak, still gasping for air, her throat too tight, and her mind too full of the ever-present thought. He killed Kíli. Dwalin killed Kíli. Finally she got some air, attempted to speak, but her voice failed her.

“Dwalin,” she finally said in a hoarse whisper. Dwalin killed Kíli. But she never finished the sentence, was overcome with renewed sobs and desperately clung to Svigur’s jerkin. She felt him stiffen.

“Dwalin... did he... did he hurt you?” he asked. Dwalin killed Kíli. He killed him. He cut his throat. But she did not have the words for it, could not say it out loud. Instead she merely nodded. He had hurt her, had hurt her more than she ever thought possible, more than any other would ever be able to hurt her.

“No!” Hrungnir roared somewhere far away. “You monster! You honourless bastard!”

“Thorin I need your assistance,” Svigur said closer to her. “Fetch a cup of tea, chamomile, quick as you can.”

 

...........

 

Dwalin knew what it looked like. He had answered such calls for aid before, though mostly among Men. Men or Dwarves, it was always the same and it was always clear what had happened. A distressed woman in the middle of the night, her jacket removed, her tunic torn, her braids undone, and in her company nobody but a visibly inebriated man. He knew what it looked like, and he knew that they knew. Dwarves or Elves, they all knew. It happened rarely, but it did happen. It was shameful, but not nearly as shameful as the truth.

He remained silent. He was still cowering in front of the sofa, unable to move from the place where he had been so close to Dís. So close and yet so far apart, irrevocably torn asunder by the secret he had harboured. It was over. He remained silent when he heard their conversation. Not just Elves, Dwarves as well, the Iron Hill Dwarves. Take care of Dís, don’t use her pain to your advantage, please take care of her. He remained silent when he heard Hrungnir’s scream.

He was that and he was so much more. He was not even worthy of calling himself a Dwarf.

He barely flinched when a heavy boot connected with his body so forcefully that he was flipped onto his back. He lay there like a dog, staring up at Hrungnir, red-faced, screaming Hrungnir, so enraged by what Dwalin had done to a dam the other Dwarf loathed. Even Hrungnir showed more concern for Dís, even Hrungnir would not sink so low as to tolerate this. The air left Dwalin’s lungs with an audible huff when Hrungnir landed a kick in his stomach. A vicious boot to the groin made him curl up onto his side. Dwalin was nauseous, he was sweating and a pounding headache spread behind his eyes. Again and again Hrungnir kicked him, white-hot pain in his ribs, in his stomach, and again and again in his groin. Dwalin did not resist, did not defend himself. He had killed Kíli. It was a just punishment if he was to be kicked to death like the rabid dog that he was.

When the Elves dragged him up, he slumped forwards, his legs unable to support his weight.

“Walk,” one of them hissed angrily. Dwalin’s head was swimming and he swayed unsteadily back and forth, but he eventually found some strength in his legs and stood. As soon as he did, the Elves withdrew their hands, shaking them as if touching him had dirtied them. They gave him disgusted looks, but said no more. They directed him with their long spears, marching him through endless corridors and down numerous flights of stairs. He knew this part of the Elevenking’s Halls, it was where they had been kept the previous year. On and on they went, deeper into the wooden bowels, into a dank darkness.

Without warning they grabbed his shoulders and shoved him violently into a small cell. He crashed into the opposite wall, groaning softly when his head hit the solid wood. He crumpled into a heap in the darkest corner. He was back in the Mirkwood dungeon. This time around he did not scream and shout, he did not even test the strength of the bars. They might as well have left the door unlocked.

He just lay there for a long time. Minutes, hours, the whole night, he did not know. It did not matter. All that mattered was Dís. Was Dís alright? Oh Mahal, let her be alright! But how could she be alright after what he had told her? Why had he told her? Why had he been so foolish? This deed should have weighed on his conscience and his alone; there was no need to drag her into this. He should have born his pain in silence; it was his own fault after all. She should never have to endure this. Why had he been so selfish? Because he could not bear to hear her ask him to give her a third son when he was the one who had taken her second son from her. He could not father the brother of the one he had murdered. But why tell her, why not simply make up an excuse, some stupid moral reason for opposing remarriage? Why did his honesty get the better of him? Maybe it was no honesty, maybe it was merely his need, his need to share his pain, to find understanding, forgiveness maybe, possibly an absolution. There would never be an absolution, he knew that now. Now all he could do was to hope that Dís was as well as she possibly could be.

His body ached, but the pain in his soul was worse. He crawled towards the door of his cell, all dignity forgotten. Two Elven guards stood on either side of the door.

“Dís,” he asked in a raspy voice. “How is the Lady Dís?”

They stared at him with revulsion, but did not answer. He repeated his question regularly, particularly when the guards changed. He repeated it again when a young Elf maid passed him some food through the bars.

“You have no right, no right to inquire after her,” she hissed. “Not after what you have done to her. I hope you rot in here until the world turns to dust!”

Before she turned away, she spit straight into his face. It was an unusual show of loathing from an Elf, but entirely justified. He did not wipe the saliva away, instead letting it trickle down his cheek. He deserved this. They thought they had arrested him for rape, and detested him for it, but any moment now Dís would divulge his real crime, and they would hate him even more. He withdrew back into the shadow, curling up on his side, hiding his face in shame. Time must have passed, but in his head it was all the same. Dís, Dís, Dís. She was his only thought.

“Dwalin!”

His brother! Balin was here. Dwalin had long ago stopped asking for his brother’s approval for everything he did, but that did not mean that he had stopped craving it. Balin was here now and Balin would understand. He could face any punishment if Balin just knew. Balin was smart, Balin was kind, Balin would understand.

He heard Balin argue with the guards, then the key was turned in the lock and the bars opened silently. Balin stepped inside and the Elf locked the door behind him.

“Are you sure you will be safe on your own?”

“He is my younger brother, I’m quite sure I can manage.”

Dwalin sat up slowly and turned to face his brother. Balin stood awkwardly in the centre of the cell and looked at him with sad eyes.

“Why?” he asked in Khuzdul. “Why after all of those years? After all of those years of pining for her... She cares for you, she was probably going to ask you to marry her, surely you must have seen that. And still you could not wait? Why? Lust, satisfaction? What made you rape your best friend’s sister, your cousin, your Queen, your One?”

Rape? Not murder? Did he not know, did he still believe that pretence? Had she not told him the truth? He had to tread cautiously.

“It’s not like that,” Dwalin answered in the same language, wary of the Elven guards. “I did not, nor would I ever force myself upon anyone, least of all Dís.”

Balin shook his head slowly and actually wiped a tear from his eye.

“Don’t be like that,” he said dejectedly. “You were caught red-handed. I have come to listen to you, to attempt to understand if I can, but I pray you, do not give me lies!”

“You know me Balin, better than anyone! You know I would not lie to you. You know I would not do this to Dís!”

“And yet you were found in her chamber in the middle of the night when she screamed for help, her braids unravelled, her clothes torn, and you by all accounts so drunk that you were unable to stand.”

“It was not what it seemed...”

“Then what was it?”

“What has Dís told you?” Dwalin asked back. If she had chosen not to share, there must have been a reason for it. Had they made her afraid? Had they done something to frighten her even more? He was the murderer, but he was behind bars now, he could not be a threat to her. What had happened to keep Dís mute? It was not his secret to divulge any more, it was hers, and he would follow her lead, follow her as he had always followed her.

“She does not need to tell me what three Dwarves and two Elves saw.”

“What did she tell you?” he asked again.

“She does not speak, Dwalin. She has been all but silent ever since... what you did to her,” Balin said, swallowing audibly, unable to bring himself to even give the crime its proper name.

“Maybe she is silent because nothing happened,” Dwalin said. He needed Balin to know, he needed Balin to understand. He could live with everybody else’s disgust and hate, but not Balin’s.

“You blackguard!” Balin shouted, truly upset now. “Do not take me for a fool! You did something and it was dishonourable. Can you deny it?”

Dwalin turned his gaze towards the ground. Oh, he had indeed done something dishonourable! And he wanted to explain, but he could not find the words. How do you explain something like this? He felt like a dwarfling again, helpless and tongue-tied, but crawling into his brother’s arms was not an option as much as he wanted to do just that.

“Can you deny it?” Balin repeated. “Look me in the eye! Did you do something dishonourable?”

He did look him in the eye then and he knew that he would never be able to lie to his brother. He could keep the truth from him like he had for so many years, but he could never tell an outright lie. He looked at his brother, physically looked up at him for the first time in many years and he knew that he deserved better, that he deserved the truth, but that it was not in his power to give him just that for as long as Dís decided to keep his real crime in the shadows. It was her decision to make, her son to protect. He looked at his brother and he knew that he was about to condemn himself, but he could not lie.

“Aye, that I did,” Dwalin said simply and for a moment all was silent except for their heavy breathing.

“You know the penalty for such a crime! In Mahal’s name, you have carried it out before,” Balin cried with tears in his eyes and Dwalin could not tell if they were tears of sorrow or of anger. “Say it! What is the punishment for such depravity? Say it out loud, Dwalin!”

Dwalin buried his face in his hands, unable to watch his brother in his rage, his terrible, but utterly justified rage.

“Death,” he mumbled.

“What? Say it loud and clear so I can hear you,” Balin demanded.

“The punishment is death,” Dwalin said gravely, looking up and sitting up straight, fully aware that he had just passed judgement over his own life. It was the law and it was just punishment. The sentence was the same for both the crime he was accused of and the one he had indeed committed. It made no difference to him, but maybe Balin would find it easier to go on living with the memory of a brother who had committed a crime whose effects he could still attempt to mitigate.

Silence fell. Not the companionable silence they enjoyed so often simply because they knew each other so well that there was not much need for talk, but a silence that weighed heavily on them, a silence that seemed to smother Dwalin.

“I always knew you were going to be trouble,” Balin finally said, his voice quiet now, reminiscent. “From before you even grew a beard, I knew you were going to get into trouble. And you did. Frequently. A drunken brawl here, an accidentally broken bone there. But as you got older and learned to control your strength, you had me breathing a sigh of relief, giving in to the hope that my little brother would not end up killing some innocent bystander when he flew into a rage. I never thought that I should have worried about you around dwarrowdams.”

He was crying, silent tears flowing into his magnificent beard, and Dwalin wished he could say something, could do something to comfort him. Balin had been right, he had become a killer, but not even drunkenness could serve as an excuse for his actions.

“It is like murdering a person’s soul when you abuse them like that,” Balin explained quietly, reminding Dwalin of the many times his brother had explained things to him. Balin had taught him almost all that he knew, had been his patient tutor when his thick skull would not comprehend the finer aspects of history or arithmetic.

Murdering a person’s soul... Not only had he indeed murdered Dís’ soul, but also her son. Dwalin cried, loud ugly sobs that left him gasping for breath. For the first time in his life, Balin did not comfort him.

When he finally glanced at his older brother, he was staring at him with such profound sadness in his eyes that it felt like a sledgehammer directly to Dwalin’s heart. There was no judgement in Balin’s eyes, just sadness and it dawned on Dwalin that he was already dead, that Balin was already grieving for him.

Time for his last words.

“How is Dís?” he asked.

Balin looked at him oddly and Dwalin feared he would repeat the rebuke the question had earned him from the Elves, but then he merely sighed.

“She is... quiet... withdrawn,” he said haltingly. “Very pale, like death has reached out to her. Ori is with her and we... we try to keep her... comfortable. She says little since... well... but she has announced that she is going to defer judgement until we reach Erebor.”

Erebor. He was not dead yet, he would actually see Erebor again.

“Good,” Dwalin muttered. The simple word seemed to enrage Balin, his fragile emotions shattering like glass on an anvil.

“Good?” he shouted. “You call that good?? You shall be the first one to be tried in Erebor since the reclamation! The first one to be condemned there in so many decades! The first to die by the henchman’s axe! And yet you call that good? Have you no shame?!”

Dwalin remained silent. After what he had done, any additional shame he felt was insignificant. He lowered his head. He hated causing his brother so much pain, but there was nothing he could say to make it better; the truth would only worsen the pain.

“What would father say?” Balin continued. “And mother... oh mother... I am so glad she never had to meet you. The shame, oh the shame...”

Mother... Dagny... the mythical figure of his brother’s tales, of his father’s tearful reminiscence... Dwalin had never known her. He had been too large, too violent from the very moment of his birth, had tortured her for too many long hours. She had bled out before she could even name him. His first deed in this world had been murder. And now Balin was saying that it had been a blessing, that he had at least spared his mother the shame of knowing what her son had become.

Balin was all he had left in this life, the only one who still spoke to him, who would at least grieve for him. He looked at him, tried to commit every hair, every line on his face to memory. This might be the last time he saw his beloved brother.

What would father say? He knew more than Balin for once. He knew what Fundin had said. Faced with the very crime that had landed his youngest son in this dungeon his father had begged him.

_Make it quick, Dwalin._

That was what father had said. But he could never tell Balin that, could never burden him with the knowledge that he had not just murdered Dagny but Fundin as well. Balin needed a chance to live, if not a happy life though at least one in which he could grieve for his only brother without dirtying the memory of both of their parents.

“Brother...” Dwalin said through his tears, voice raspy. He reached out for Balin just to assure himself one last time that Balin was here, that Balin still cared enough to visit him in prison, that he had once been a Dwarf people cared about.

But Balin jerked back as if Dwalin had threatened him.

“I have no brother,” he said, sobbing and tearing his beard. “You are no longer fit to bear the name of Fundin.”


	18. Chapter 18

She felt a large, calloused hand on her back, rubbing slow circles on her shoulder blade as she cried. She was no longer alone with her pain; she did not have to bear it alone any more. The hand continued its slow, patient work and strong arms embraced her as her face was pressed into rough fabric. The feeling of not being alone, of being somewhere, with someone was so comforting, reaffirming that there was still some good in this world, that there was a point in soldiering on, in living. Her tears were flowing freely now as she buried her face deeper into the tunic. Deeper into that familiar smell, the smell of leather and blade-oil, accompanied by the warmth of a crackling fire. Dís took deep breaths, enjoying the sensations that assaulted her senses. She had her eyes closed, allowing her body to melt into the feeling of safety. She was comfortable and warm in his firm embrace, heard nothing but his steady heartbeat and smelled what was so real and reassuring. Dwalin.

Her tears were still hot and desperate, but Dwalin was solid, he was warm, he was real. Dís did not think she would ever want to move again. She would just wait out the rest of her days in his hard embrace. He had always been her rock. Stoic, unbending, reliable in all circumstances. Dwalin was just there through everything she, her family and her people had endured over the years. Steadfast. Dwalin did not waver.

_But he had._

The pleasant dream shattered like glass under a hammer and Dís awoke with a gasp. Her hands flew to her throat once more. She had dreamt of Dwalin, of Kíli’s killer. She had dreamt of him fondly, not in the murderous way that was expected and justified given his deeds and the desperate nature of her situation. Her sleeping mind had wanted to be with him, had found comfort in his embrace, solace in his familiar nature.

It had been in that very nature to cut Kíli’s throat when he lay alone, broken and bleeding on the battlefield. Certainly that should have been enough to erase any lingering fondness, any history of comfort and friendship they might have shared!

Why did she still want him by her side? Why did that feeling of safety stay with her even after she awoke and tried to banish that terrible dream from her mind? Why was Dwalin the one who could comfort her aching heart?

_He had murdered her son!_

She had had him arrested, locked up in a dungeon and now dragged in chains towards Erebor where she would condemn him. There was no space for sympathy, for comfort, for companionship.

And yet...

He was her only true friend. The thought came unbidden, and she tried in vain to banish it from her mind, to make it disappear back into the chasms of consciousness from whence it came.

He had ended Kíli’s life. He was no friend of hers. He could not be! She squeezed her eyes shut. She could not allow herself this weakness. For her son’s sake she had to be strong.

She should have attacked him on the spot, should have cut his throat in turn as soon as the confession had left his tongue. She knew her physical strength was no match for his, knew that he could easily restrain her or even cause her harm – it was her excuse, and they all seemed to accept it. Nobody had questioned the fact that she was just a weak dwarrowdam faced with a foe that was beyond her skill to handle. It was a lie. She might not be able to overpower him through sheer muscle, but she was no weak and helpless dwarrowdam. She knew that he would not raise a finger to defend himself against her. He would accept whatever punishment she saw fit to assign to him. She did not need the Elven guard to rid herself of his presence one way or the other.

She should not have called the guard. She should have just executed him on the spot. Mahal knew he deserved it!

Mahal knew, but Dís did not.

She should not have hesitated. She should have been brave; she should have acted. Thorin would have. Thorin would have cut off his head without hesitation. Thorin would have acted.

He would have acted first and thought later. He would have killed his own best friend without a second thought and then tortured himself because of it for the rest of his life.

She was not Thorin – she did not kill on an impulse, even though Dwalin deserved death. He did deserve death. It would have been justice; both murder and rape carried the death penalty. He deserved it all.

Hrungnir had offered more than once to make Dwalin suffer for all of his crimes. It was tempting. She wanted to see him suffer, to make him feel all of the pain that he had caused Kíli. It had felt good to see Hrungnir kick Dwalin senseless and she had wished that it had been her boots connecting with his body instead. But she knew he would not have been able to stop herself, to keep herself from kicking his head, his throat, again and again and again until there was no task left for the henchman.

Hrungnir had kicked his groin. The men said that it hurt as much as childbirth. Dís guessed nobody would ever know for sure, but she hoped it did hurt just as much.

Hrungnir had kicked his stomach and she knew that that hurt, had been able to tell by the way in which Dwalin curled up on his side, the proud warrior brought low.

Hrungnir had kicked his ribs as well. Dís hoped he had not caused any grievous harm to the barely-healed incision, the rib that the Elf lord had broken in his desperate attempt to save Dwalin’s life just a few weeks ago.

_Hopefully Dwalin was all right._

A knock on the door. Was it that late already?

“Lady Dís, may I come in?”

She quickly untangled herself from the man-sized sheets and threw a shawl over her shoulders.

“Come in!”

“Good morning, Lady Dís,” he said, attempting to bow while balancing a breakfast tray.

“Good morning, Thorin,” she said. He would never have the determination of his namesake, the calm self-assurance of Fíli or the charming nature of Kíli, but polite to a fault, caring even he had become quite useful. They all had. All of a sudden they were very concerned about her. The power of being a victim, Dís mused... being robbed of her family did apparently not warrant sympathy, but allegedly being robbed of her honour suddenly made her worthy. Worthy of what, she could not fathom, but Thorin seemed to have adopted her as a cherished aunt ever since their ill-fated stay in Mirkwood, determined to care for her, to even protect her in his own little impotent way against the evils that lurked everywhere in this cruel world.

He was fussing with her breakfast now. There was not enough sugar in her tea and not enough honey on her porridge. He did not know how she liked it best and she did not bother telling him.

_Dwalin would have known._

Bard, the dragon-slayer and new Lord of Dale – which was gradually being rebuilt but nowhere near the splendour of its glory days – bade them farewell and then they were ready to start the very last stage of their journey.

To Erebor!

The Queen under the Mountain would arrive today to claim her throne.

Svigur was by her side, reassuring her in his calm and even voice. Balin helped her into the saddle, looking oddly old and shrunken with his shortened beard. Ori rode next to Thorin, the two youngsters united in their concern for Dís. Hrungnir was behind them on his heavy gelding, smiling at her.

Last came Dwalin.

His hands and feet were chained, heavy, reliable chains of dwarven make. His wrists were bound and another chain stretched between his feet, underneath the belly of his pony. More chains connected him with a guard riding on either side of him. He did not look up, kept his eyes trained on the mane of his horse instead. He had been the one who always believed in Thorin’s dream of reclaiming Erebor. Over the decades, everyone else had given up on their ancient homeland. A new generation had been born, a new town had been established and they had prospered, after a fashion. Thorin had insisted that one day he would go and reclaim Erebor. And Dwalin had stood by his side, supported him all the way to... well, to the reclamation of Erebor. The two of them had worked tirelessly for that moment, had braved much danger and defamation for it. Thorin had not survived long enough to see the fruits of his labour, to see the folk of Durin populate the mountain once more. Dwalin had. He had been a hero of the reclamation and the ensuing battle, had played a major part in their success by all accounts that she had heard over the past months. And now he was being dragged back in chains. Dís was dragging him back in chains.

“Untie him!”

Their heads snapped up, eyes wide they were staring at her, all except Dwalin himself who gave no sign that he had heard her. They were astonished and so was Dís. She had no sympathy for him, she did not owe Dwalin any allegiance. None at all.

“You cannot...”

“Do you truly think that wise?”

“It would surely be better...”

They were all against it, Dwalin’s own brother, his companions through so many dangers, none of them were willing to give him that small courtesy, to let the hero of Erebor return to the mountain unbound. None were willing to forgive him for what he had done. What he actually had not done. She swallowed heavily.

“Remove his chains. Keep a bow trained on him. Shoot him if he dares to break rank,” she said, knowing full-well that he would not do so. Their eyes met as Ivladi scrambled to unlock the chains. There was so much pain in his eyes. So much pain.

She did not care, obviously. She was not doing this for him. She was doing this for Balin who had suffered so much shame already. She was doing this for Thorin, for her brother’s memory, for his best friend and stoutest supporter. Thorin would not have liked to see Dwalin chained. She was giving this order for the sake of Thorin’s memory.

_What about Kíli’s memory?_

It was a strange ride towards Erebor. None of them spoke much, each lost in their own thoughts. The mountain loomed in the distance, drawing closer with every step of their ponies. Erebor was her homeland, but Dís did not remember much about it. The few things she did know about it might have been stories she had been told over the years just as much as they were memories. She had been so young when the dragon came. She had always longed for a home, exiled and forced to wander as she was for much of her early life, but she had never longed for Erebor. She had been content to build her own home with her husband and her children. The landscape was impressive, but she looked upon her dominion with disinterest. She had never desired to be a ruler, had done her duty to her people gladly, but had never craved power. Nevertheless, it was her duty to take the throne now, her duty to her people, and her duty to her sons. It was a sunny day and the plains were covered in lush grass and flowers. It looked peaceful, idyllic and inviting, but the closer they got to the mountain, the more difficult Dís found it to focus on the task ahead of her. She had been planning, scheming, deliberating for weeks now, preparing herself for this day. She would face her cousin Dáin and tell him in no uncertain terms that she was willing to fight him for the crown, that the last descendent of the direct line of Durin was unwilling to bow before him. Now all that seemed far away and long forgotten as they were riding through fields that had, mere months ago, been covered in blood and bodies. While plants were draped across most of it like soothing poultices, the scars in the landscape were still plain to see, a stark reminder of the scale of the destruction war had brought to these parts. They had ridden past the rows of neat graves just outside of Dale, small mounds that covered the fallen Men. Balin had told her that the Elves had been buried beneath cairns on the ridges of the mountain, as was their custom. The Dwarves of course had found their final resting places within Erebor. But they had died out here. Her sons had died here. Somewhere there were flowers growing from the earth that had soaked up their lifeblood. Every hillock could be the place where they had breathed their last, every stone could have born witness to their final fight. The thought haunted her.

Too soon they reached the great front gate. There was a buzz of activity surrounding the looming statues of long-deceased forebears. Amidst much shouting, a massive stone head was being lifted with the aid of a complicated system of pulleys and levers, obviously destined to once again grace the shoulders of the gigantic warrior that had been hewn from the rock to guard the gate. There were signs of neglect and destructions everywhere, just as Dís had expected, but she was surprised by the scale of the restoration that had already taken place and was evidently being pursued with the greatest ardour now that more pleasant weather allowed such work.

Some of the labourers on the ground briefly bowed to welcome the new arrivals, and others waved their hats in greeting from their posts high up on the scaffolding. It was evident that they had been expected, but nobody stopped to stare and gossip, instead they all went about their tasks again as soon as the small delegation had ridden past them. Dís was surprised to find the great gate open with sunlight flooding the entrance hall. There were guards on duty, watching them keenly and standing at attention when they passed, but Dís had expected Erebor to be fortified. She had sent word of her impending arrival ahead and by now at least a rumour must have spread of her intentions. She had expected that Dáin would make her beg for entrance to her own realm, to demonstrate his own position of power. They were pitted against each other in this fight and since he did not have tradition and bloodlines on his side, he had to seek to highlight his inherent capabilities and strength as a ruler, had to make her seem weak and powerless. And yet there was... nothing.

Did Dáin not take her claim seriously? Did he seek to humiliate her by simply ignoring her? Did he expect her to just slink away into the shadows and relinquish her birth right to a usurper? He would live to regret that inane assumption.

Dís had never had much of a temper, certainly not compared to Thorin. In fact, she found shouting and throwing a tantrum to be quite detrimental to any sort of effort to achieve her goals. The blunt weapons of those who knew nothing of diplomacy and lacked the power of a sharp wit. But Dáin’s behaviour was an affront. She would not be offended by him. Not by an Iron Hill dirt digger as Dwalin had called Dáin and all of his people.

Dwarves scurried towards them as they rode through the gates, welcoming them with many bows and good wishes. Several of them helped Dís dismount and offered her refreshments. She looked around and for a moment she could not help but be impressed with the grandeur of Erebor. The hall they stood in was magnificent indeed, spacious beyond all imagination, carefully hewn from the green marble. Veins of gold and copper glittered enticingly in the sunlight that shone not only from the gate, but was also channelled through an intricate network of light shafts, illuminating every last part of the enormous space. Nothing Dís had ever seen had prepared her for the exquisiteness of Erebor. The stone in itself was stunning, but the way in which it had been worked spoke of true mastery. She had never worked in stone herself, but still had a great appreciation for the art. None of the work they had done in the Ered Luin could even begin to compare to this beauty. Along the sides and overhead there were flights of stairs, delicate bridges and elevated walkways that seemed to float without any support at all. Erebor was a marvel!

_So marvellous that you would sacrifice your sons for it?_

The thought came unbidden and Dís tried in vain to brush it away. Nothing would ever justify the loss of her sons! Nothing. But at least she could... appreciate the place they had gone out to reclaim, the place they had died to defend, the place where they now rested. She wanted to visit their grave. The pull of it was becoming almost unbearable now that they were all in the same mountain once more. She had no time for this now. She had to... somehow she had to make sure there was some sort of sense to it all

“Cousin!”

A booming voice rang from somewhere to her left. She turned abruptly and watched Dáin hurry down a wide, sweeping staircase. He was dressed in a simple leather jerkin and still looked much like she remembered him from their last meeting many decades ago. His bushy red hair and beard were now flecked with silver, but he was as broad as ever. He was tall. The sons and daughters of Durin usually were. There had been much laughter about Fíli being the first in many generations to actually have the self-confidence to be a proper dwarf who did not have to try and reach improbable heights to become a recognised leader. They would make two imposing figures in this stand-off. The Lord of the Iron Hills and the Lady of the Blue Mountains doing battle over the crown of the Lonely Mountain. Let them put that into song!

He stopped in front of her, bowing so low that his beard brushed the floor.

“At your service, Dís”

“At yours,” Dís said, barely even nodding her head.

He took out a handkerchief and used it to clean his hands, which as Dís now noticed were dripping with water.

“I apologise that I was not here to welcome you immediately,” he said. “One of the major water lines to the upper levels collapsed this morning and we have been working to fix it.”

His clothes were indeed wet in places and covered in dust in others.

“The infrastructure is not in the best state,” Dáin continued. “We have most of the main systems up and running just fine, but there are still many holes to plug. Smaug really did a number on things. No sense of statics, that worm!”

Dís had played out many scenarios for their first meeting in her head, but she had not expected to be confronted with matters of civil engineering within minutes of her arrival. She valiantly tried to hide her astonishment.

“I forget my manners,” he said. “First and foremost, welcome home, Dís! After all of these years, allow me the great honour of welcoming you back to the Lonely Mountain. We are few and our work is humble, but we do our best to renew the glory of your domain, Lady Dís of Erebor.”

_Lady Dís of Erebor._

She regarded him coldly and kept her voice very calm and determined. There was no point in beating around the bush.

“I want to speak to you alone,” she said

Dáin bowed.


	19. Chapter 19

Dáin had led her to a part of the city that had escaped most of the damage wrought by the dragon. The stone was still blackened in places, but the debris had been cleared from the streets and many houses showed signs of habitation. He had explained that they had made this area their base, as the richer areas had mostly been destroyed. The houses here were of a decent size, but mostly unadorned. Dís suspected that a grocer had previously owned this house, if the layout was anything to go by. They were in an upstairs room now, two large windows overlooking the square at the front, a small fountain at its centre providing much-needed drinking water. The room had been cleaned and was now mostly bare, except for a bedroll atop a warg’s pelt along the far wall and a set of saddlebags sitting beside it. That part of the room looked like a humble warrior’s abode and was in sharp contrast to the other half of it. A large gilded table stood in front of the windows and around it four ornate, jewel-encrusted chairs. They were pompous and, in Dís’ mind at least, hideously ugly. Dáin seemed to share her opinion.

“Forgive my lack of style,” he said with a snort. “Hera would have had my head for dragging these abominations into the house, but a certain sabre-toothed slug did not share her impeccable taste. That overgrown magpie destroyed almost everything that wasn’t made of gold and gems. He seemed to think anything that didn’t glitter distracted from the magnificence of his robber’s hoard. Despite his lack of talent as a decorator, he did a rather thorough job with the deforestation of the area, so throughout the winter I could not justify the use of wood for something as mundane as a table for council meetings. I will see to it that something more appropriate is found. For now, I’m afraid we are stuck with these.”

He pulled up a chair for her and bade her sit which she did gladly. Many weeks in the saddle had taken her toll and she had to quietly acknowledge that she was no longer as young as she had been. Appropriately sized furniture was a blessing even if it did glitter like a cave full of glow-worms. Dáin briefly left the room, but returned imminently bearing a tray with a steaming pot, two cups and a simple snack of bread and sausages. And a jar of sugar as Dís noted to her delight. He poured her some tea and she heaped sugar into it. This was not going to be pleasant; she might as well sweeten this meeting a little.

“You have assumed kingship over Erebor,” she said, her voice all challenge.

“I have not,” he said. “I have not sat upon that throne nor touched that crown. I have merely been a steward to Erebor since the battle, as no other would assume the role and both men and mountain were in need of some care. It is my hope that you may find my work satisfactory.”

He sounded so humble, sitting there in his simple leather jerkin, gently blowing air onto the tea in his earthen mug. He acted like a caring cousin, one who had her best interest at heart and truly was at her service. It was deceptive. If she had not known so much of deceit, she might have believed his act.

“Your emissaries presented me with my own abdication, a document already written and witnessed, just waiting for me to sign it,” she said icily.

A fist crashed onto the table making the dishes shudder and tea spill all over the intricate gold inlay. Some of Durin’s proverbial temper seemed to have made it into Dáin’s line as well.

“They what??” he roared. “The fools! By my beard, I’ll tear the nail off every finger that ever touched that scroll!”

“That won’t be necessary,” Dís said calmly, water to his flame.

“In the names of the seven fathers I swear that was not my intention.”

“I gathered that from your reaction.”

“This is entirely my fault,” he said, breathing deeply to calm himself. “I did indeed ask Svigur and Balin to draw up such a document. We had discussed how the news was going to affect you and given the... given the great losses... I was unsure whether you would want to travel here at all. In that case I thought it wise to ensure that you would not be disturbed any more. Instead of writing such an important document in haste, I asked those pillocks to carefully craft it while they were still in Erebor. It was however never to be given to you if you decided to travel to Erebor. Those absolute bellends!”

He paused and opened a hidden drawer underneath the table from which he withdrew a parchment, unrolling it and sliding it across to Dís.

“Upon careful examination you will however find that there is no demand for your abdication,” he said.

Dís squinted at the document in front of her. It was undoubtedly a copy of the one she had declined to sign in the Ered Luin. She had never read beyond “I, Dís daughter of Thráin son of Thrór of the line of Durin, decree that Dáin son of Náin son of Grór is to sit upon the throne of Erebor and to be named King under the Mountain on my behalf” – that had been all she needed to know, those words and the leers Svigur, Hrungnir, Thorin and Balin and given her. For the first time she was now reading more than those first lines:

“... Authorised to rule as sovereign of the realm in my name and with my instruction... to deliver annual reports on matters both internal and external to Erebor... any changes to fundamental laws (based upon those currently applicable in the Ered Luin) to be ratified... until such time as I rescind this decree”

These were just a few of the phrases that stood out to her. How could this be? They had acted like she was going to revoke her birthright. Svigur had said so... _Your full statement indicating that you lay down all claim to the throne of Erebor, swear never to claim your birthright and gladly pass the crown to Dáin, son of Náin, for him and his line to rule from now on until the end of the race of Dwarves._

“This is not what I was told,” she said. “Svigur told me that I was swearing off the throne and handing the rule over to your line until the end of time.”

Dáin sighed.

“A council of elders asked me to include this addition,” he said, pointing towards the bottom of the scroll, underneath the signatures, where there was an additional paragraph detailing just this decision. “I should not have yielded to their demands given what I know now. It seemed justified at the time considering the length of the journey to the Ered Luin, the volatility of our position here shortly after the battle, and generally not knowing how you would... This decision was made because I was insecure. However, this addition was only ever meant as an option, never a requirement.”

Dís raised an eyebrow at that. Admitting insecurity? He might be similar to Thorin in many other ways, but this was new. Interesting. Still, this matter remained unresolved.

“So all of this was just one big misunderstanding?” she asked.

Dáin brushed his hand over his face and kneaded his beard.

“Knowing my son it was a bit more than that,” he said. “I should have known better than to send him along.”

She appreciated his honesty. All these weeks since... since that fateful day... she had been caught in a nightmare. Fíli and Kíli’s horrendous deaths... the political matters that robbed her of a chance to grieve... Balin’s opposition to her becoming queen... Dwalin’s almost fatal injury... Dwalin’s betrayal... All these weeks she had learned to not trust anybody, to not expect anything good to last, and she was tired of it. But she was not beyond acknowledging the few good things that had happened.

“Do not underestimate Thorin,” she said. “He has been useful and kind.”

Dáin scoffed at that.

“I doubt that,” he said. “My own fault though. I spoiled him after Hera’s death... wasn’t nearly as successful as you were at this single parenting thing.”

“He is... insecure, but he is not a bad Dwarf.”

“They rumour that he is not even my son, that he is unworthy to bear my name,” Dáin said, then looked at her. “I love the lad, he is my only surviving child, my living memory of Hera. But I do not blame you for despising him. He is not like your sons.”

“He is young and alone,” Dís said carefully.

Dáin gave a humourless laugh.

“From all I have heard and the little I have seen of them, he makes a poor comparison to your sons.”

“He must hate to be compared to them like that,” Dís said. “It is not going to help his insecurities to have them held up as shining examples. We always make people sound perfect once they are... dead.”

The last word was still difficult to say; it still hurt her after all of these weeks. She took a big gulp of her tea. Dáin reached across the table and gently took her hand.

“We should not be talking about my son. How are you, Dís?”

“Fine.”

There was no space to talk about her sensibilities, no time to wallow in self-pity. She was fine. Everybody swallowed that lie. Everybody but Dáin.

“You must be devastated,” Dáin said. “I remember... I remember the night we lost Hekla. Being a parent has brought me much joy, but it also caused me the most pain. I never had another wound that hurt that much, nor one that festered for so long...”

She tried to choke back the tears. She tried valiantly. And failed. It was like a dam had burst. That broken pipe could not have leaked more water than she did. It was shameful, but there was nothing she could do about it. The tears just came and they kept coming for a long time. She could not even voice her grief, the pain she had contained in her breast for so long. It all came crashing down on her like a rockslide. Fíli, her rock, her hope, the stalwart that would protect her in her old age, that would ensure that their people never had to go back to the despair they had known before. Fíli, the one who cared so much, who would selflessly do anything that helped even the least of their people. So many great plans, so many hopes that had been dashed, leaving so much insecurity and fear in their wake. Kíli, her sunshine, the one who made her smile again after all of those years, with the sense of humour that reminded her of Jóli and the big grin that was just like Frerin’s. Kíli, the one who made people happy, who managed to charm and motivate anyone, who even made Thorin laugh. So much joy, so much energy, but all of that had been cruelly crushed out on the battlefield.

Dáin let her cry, gave her the space and time to do so, the space and time she had not had so far. Finally, somebody acknowledged her pain, did not claim to understand what she was going through, but was beside her anyways, was quietly sitting with her, the quiet companionship of another parent who had lost a child.

Every time she tried to draw in a calming breath, there was another sob. She could not stop herself for the longest time. It was too long. She should not be so weak, so helpless and useless; she should not do this to Dáin. She should be stronger than this; she should be able to hold it together. She was falling to pieces, after all these weeks of standing tall, of being a leader, a warrior, a worthy opponent, her defences were crumbling and what was left was just a weak dwarrowdam, scared and all alone in a cruel world.

Dáin did not hold her, but he gently stroked his thumb across her fingers, and was just there. He gave her his handkerchief once she had calmed down a little and made her another cup of tea with plenty of sugar. After she had sipped it and dried her face, he suggested a visit to the crypts. Dís wanted to go, wanted to be as close to her sons as she’d ever be again, but she did not want their people to see her like this, she knew she was not exactly the picture of an ideal leader right now.

Dáin led her down to the tombs by dark and abandoned paths. He declined a guard and simply took a couple of torches. It was just the two of them going further and further down into the rocky bowels of the Lonely Mountain. She was struggling to draw breath. She had been born underground, she was a daughter of Durin, and she did not mind the weight of the mountain above her, had always been most comfortable underground, but this was too much. There was a weight on her chest that had nothing to do with a lack of oxygen. She was going to see her sons’ tomb. To her it felt like she was going to her own burial.

The crypts were magnificent, one of the architectural marvels of Erebor. She had dim memories of coming down here as a small child, memories of the rows of tombs that held her ancestors. Thorin had told her so many stories about them, trying to tie her to these roots that had been so brutally severed when she was only ten years old. She had no appreciation for the beauty of the space now. Her eyes were drawn to the two large tombs on the far right, the last in a long line.

Names. Names on slabs of polished marble. Her sons’ names. Her sons’ names on their grave.

She heard a loud, drawn-out howl that prickled her skin and sent shivers down her spine... the sort of sound that makes you hope that whatever is making it will soon be out of its misery... It stopped when she gasped for air, and she realized that she had been the one making that noise. Strange, it sounded so far away.

She should have been hugging her sons, ruffling their hair, patting their backs. Instead she was embracing their tomb. The stone was cold and hard. It did not hug her back, did not pull her into a rough embrace, did not sweep her off her feet like her sons had been wont to do. The tomb just stood there, unyielding. She pressed her whole body against the marble, trying to get closer, wishing she could slip through an invisible crack and be reunited with her sons. She longed to be with them, to hold them, to hear their voices again. Those were not just two Dwarves resting here, those were the two halves of her heart.

Her fingers traced the runes on the stone. Fíli. Fíli. Fíli. Again and again her fingers followed the letters. The sharp ridges were cutting into her skin, but she barely felt it. Fíli. It was not even his real name. She whispered his name, his true name, his Khuzdul name. It was so much richer and more meaningful. She whispered it like the precious secret that it was. She had no other words for the pain she felt, did not know how to put it into words. Her eldest, her first-born, the golden-haired dwarfling that made her marriage complete and filled their house with even more love. It had not been easy back then, the Ered Luin not nearly as prosperous as it had become in the following decades, and winters had been harsh, particularly in the household of a woodworker. But they had had each other and they had had Fíli. Some of the tough conditions of his early days must have seeped into the very core of Fíli’s being. He always was the quiet, observant one, the one who thought before he acted and he was always so mature for his age. He had grown into a calm and collected dwarf, an heir his uncle could rely on and a leader their people were more than willing to follow. But most of all, he had been the mithril of Dís’ heart.

She moved on to Kíli’s stone, repeating his inner name over and over. Her little ray of sunshine, the tiny babe who had been born too early, but lived to show everyone just how feisty he was. He had such a zest for life, such boundless energy; he never stopped moving. His early weeks had been full of fear, but he survived against the odds and thinking back now, Dís saw his arrival as the moment when life and laughter had returned to the Longbeards. He was the ray of sunshine that finally broke through the perpetual darkness of exile and warfare. Kíli made it impossible for anyone to be sad for long. Apart from Thorin’s hard work, it had certainly been Kíli’s charm that united their people. The scrawny dwarfling had grown into a warrior, but his sunny nature remained. There was not a single person in the Ered Luin or beyond who could deny him something he really wanted. Nobody had any reason to deny him anything, because despite his happy-go-lucky nature, he used his power wisely. Kíli had shaped up to be a magnificent support for his brother. But most of all, he had been the mithril of Dís’ heart.

There was blood smeared onto Kíli’s stone. Blood. It confused her for a moment, but then Dís noticed that the skin on her fingertips had broken. She traced the runes again and watched the thin red lines spread. Blood. She had bandaged so many wounds, but she had not been there when it really mattered, when her baby boy really needed her.

She was on her knees and did not know how she had gotten there. She stretched her arms, trying to embrace her sons. She would never do that again. That fateful day a year ago when they had ridden away, that had been the last time she ever saw them, touched them, spoke to them. She only embraced the cold stone that held them captive. Her sobs had abated, but tears were still streaming down her cheeks. Her sons were spent. For all that she had tried to teach them about life and happiness, it all ended here, once again with death and despair.

She smacked her forehead against the smooth marble. It felt good, a sharp pain that reverberated through her skull. It was a relief. She hit her head against the wall again and again. Harder. Pain, pain was good, pain meant that she could still feel. Somehow it anchored her in the present. Physical pain was so much easier to bear than emotional pain. She knew she was hurting herself, but these wounds would heal. Again she hit her forehead against the stone.

A gentle hand was squeezing her shoulder.

“Dís...”

Dáin... Dáin was still here; he was watching all of this. He did not say or do any more, reminding her of just how little they knew each other. They had met, of course, there had been visits and letters, but they had never been close. Dáin had been very young when he had inherited the lordship over the Iron Hills from his grandfather, and from then on he had always been busy and seldom able to keep up a correspondence with his exiled cousins. She had just revealed the innermost part of her soul to someone who was essentially a stranger, but his eyes showed nothing but kindness and sadness. Nonetheless, she dragged herself to her feet. She could come back another time.

She was reluctant to let go of her sons’ tomb, but eventually she walked over to the last tomb in that long line of kings and princes.

_Thorin II_

_‘Oakenshield’_

_King under the Mountain_

There he lay, her brother who had started all of this.

Dís slapped her hand against the marble of his tomb, a faint echo of the hit she wanted to land across his face.

“Why?” she asked and was not even sure what she was asking him. _Why did you go on this quest? Why did you care so much about Erebor? Why did you not keep my sons safe? Why did you die?_

At long last, she had exhausted herself. Her legs were shaking and she sat down heavily on the cold ground, leaning against Thorin’s tomb. Dáin sat down next to her. They sat in silence for several minutes, each following their own thoughts.

“He should be king,” Dáin finally said, jerking his head in a court nod to the stone behind them.

“I never wanted any of this,” Dís said. “I never envied his power.”

“Me neither. The Iron Mountains were always enough for me.”

Silence fell once more, only broken by their breaths and the trickling of water somewhere in the distance. They were in a mountain full of people, but down here they were on their own, surrounded only by their deceased family members.

“Where does that leave us?” Dís finally asked. “Two reluctant royals with a mountain to be ruled.”

Dáin took in a deep breath, released it slowly, then turned to look at her in the guttering light of the torches.

“There is no need to make a decision right now,” he said. “Get to know Erebor, recover from your journey. I just ask you to allow me to stay involved. I care deeply for Erebor and for her people.”


	20. Chapter 20

“What in Mahal’s name did you think you were doing??”

Dís rarely cursed, but this was well worth it. How could he?? Dáin had seemed like such a nice, genuine Dwarf, a rare good man among all those who would look down on her and try to take advantage of her. And now this! They had agreed to make decisions together, to take care of Erebor and her people as a team. And barely a week into their agreement he just went and stamped on it with his big iron boots!

“I apologise I should have spoken to you...”

“You very well should have! I thought we were going to rebuild this kingdom together!”

“It all happened so quickly, I did not think...”

Oh right, now the famous Durin temper was going to be blamed again. Always such a convenient excuse for them to not use their heads!

“Learn to control your anger, Dáin, you are no witless youth!”

In fact, when he had been just that, he had been a hero of Azanulbizar and soon after the ruler of the Iron Hills. A wise, just and successful ruler by all accounts. No evidence of that now!

“He attacked one of my men!”

“Who fought him off together with the other guards. We have guards outside the treasury for exactly that purpose.”

“Not for them to be maimed! I won’t have some lowlife kill my men for a few coins. They have been through enough, they survived the battle and all, and not just to now be hacked to pieces by some dirty bawbag!”

“So you are the only one who has a right to hack people to pieces, are you?”

“I do whatever it takes to protect my men. And yes, it’s my duty to deliver justice!”

“You call that justice? You cut off the thief’s hand!”

“Which was exactly what he did to Búri! The man is a gem cutter; he needs his hands, both of them. He has a family to feed!”

“As does the thief, in all likelihood. Two one-armed Dwarves do not make an able-bodied one. We now have two destitute families on our hands!”

“There has to be punishment for such a crime!”

“Aye, there has to be punishment, but not for the sake of punishing. I’d rather see us work to prevent crime and to restore what was lost.”

“Sweet thought, but how are you going to restore a severed hand? You’d have to be a wizard to do that!”

Oh how she wished she had the power to give back what was lost due to violence...

“A lost hand cannot be restored, but a lost income can. Make sure a part of that Dwarf’s wages are being paid to Búri instead.”

“Is that how you go about it in the Ered Luin?”

“No, but it is how I would like us to do it in Erebor. We are a small colony with very limited resources. We need to preserve our workforce if at all possible.”

“Now executions then?”

He had to touch that. They had discussed much over the past week, but had taken great care not to touch upon the matter of succession or the equally contentious matter of the one prisoner who was currently in the Erebor dungeons. Dáin’s remark was salt upon an open wound and he knew it.

“I did not say that,” Dís replied evenly. “Any Dwarf who is an uncontrollable danger to our community and to our values must be removed. I feel no less deeply about our people than you do, Dáin. I would not see them hurt or threatened in any way.”

And I felt much more deeply about the ones I could not keep from harm, she thought but did not say.

The incident triggered an in-depth discussion of crime and justice, which Dís felt would be very beneficial to their long-term plans for Erebor. These were being drafted mainly between the two of them, but also with the input of a council of elders. Many of the Dwarves of Thorin’s company, as well as some of the officers of Dáin’s army were now leading delegations and committees on a variety of topics. There was much work to be done in order to turn the abode of a dragon back into a prosperous Dwarven kingdom. Their progress was well-documented. Every day, Dáin showed Dís detailed reports and based on these they made decisions for the next day. Thorin had never possessed sufficient patience for bookkeeping, but Dís appreciated meticulous records and the thorough picture they gave of both their struggles and achievements.

They each had their areas of success and others they cared less about. Dáin excelled at architecture, managing the restorations and the exploration of the vast halls. Dís enjoyed external matters more, putting her skill at diplomacy to good use in negotiations with their neighbours. The sewage system was one thing neither one of them could find any passion for, but they knew just how necessary it was especially as the population grew with more arrivals expected from both of their realms throughout the summer. There was a sense of optimism, a power. Things were moving and developing and they were setting up a brand new society here. One that would be less based on class and gender differences, they agreed on that. They agreed on many things. A sort of easy companionship had developed between them; very reminiscent of the way she had worked with Thorin in recent years. Dáin was just as determined and temperamental, but usually showed a good deal more common sense and worried much about their people, but reassuringly little about the treasure. It was there and it was closely guarded, but it would also be used not just for the good of the nobles nor that of the dwarves alone. All the people in the north should benefit from a strong Erebor, both economically and military, that had been their agreement ever since their first long talk down by the tombs.

For their neighbours to benefit from Erebor, they needed a say in her affairs, a space in which all of the views of Dwarves, Men and Elves were heard. It would be a novelty to introduce such a council, but given the volatility of the peace in the area, both Dáin and Dís felt that it was necessary to continue to strengthen the alliances that had been forged in the heat of battle. Nobody knew for how long the Orcs would take to lick their wounds and regroup. Erebor, Dale or the Woodland Realm, individually, there was not much they could hope to achieve, particularly not at the moment, as they were all regrouping and recovering, but together they were more than a match for any attack their enemies would be able to muster. A council was supposed to be held in regular intervals, to discuss affairs with their allies and trading partners. Dain had suggested the old high court as their meeting hall once the governmental structures had been established.

Dís sat up straight and stretched her spine. They had sat here for hours, noses buried in parchment. Comfort had certainly been no more than an afterthought in the design of these hideous chairs.

“Let’s take a walk,” she suggested. “Stretch our legs a little and have a look around. I’d quite like to see the old high court. You said it needed some restorations.”

“Might as well,” Dáin said and stood, cracking his shoulders. “Let’s stop by the kitchens to look in on Bombur as well.”

They did that, grabbed a cheese scone each, and then continued past what used to be the main market and now mostly resembled a yard full of building materials. Stone was being cut in one corner, while wooden support beams were piled high in another. The workers nodded and smiled at them, and a foreman came over to greet them, but overall it was good to see that everyone was getting on with their work and knew what they should be doing. Things were running so much more smoothly than Dís would have expected given the circumstances. Dáin’s soldiers were highly disciplined and hard-working. While they still had a long way to go to make Erebor more than just barely inhabitable, visible progress was being made every day. It was reassuring. Dís felt better about the work they had been doing over the past week than she had about anything in years.

The high court was in a magnificent amphitheatre of dark rock. There was a large raised platform in the centre and around it in a wide circle rose row after row of stone benches. They had entered it from the top and Dís felt like she stood at the rim of a brooding volcano. The main light-shaft seemed to be partially blocked by fallen rocks, so the light was dim, barely illuminating the vastness of the room. It was not exactly inviting, but it could comfortably fit many delegates, with plenty of space to make even Men and Elves comfortable. They carefully walked down the steep stone steps. There were cracks in the rock, some of the benches were broken and rubble was scattered throughout the room. However, it did not seem unredeemably damaged. Dáin shared her assessment and outlined how repairs could be made relatively quickly to ensure they had a suitable meeting space within a few weeks. Despite the decay, the high court was still an impressive structure. As they stepped lower, the seats seemed to rise like mountain ranges. They would have to think of something to rob the room of its foreboding nature. Dori could probably think of something, some tapestries in light colours to brighten the space, some wood to make it seem warmer and more alive. It would not do to petrify their allies when the intention was to have constructive discussion.

Dáin was still examining a particularly deep crack in one of the steps when Dís stepped onto the floor. Behind her the judge’s podium loomed and around the semicircle of benches climbed towards the high ceiling. She could not help but pity the poor souls who had faced justice here. Once all of these benches were occupied by onlookers, it must become a truly frightening place for anybody accused of a serious crime. And it was only those accused of serious crimes that had faced justice here. A stark reminder of this was the high circular platform that stood staunchly in the centre of the room. Dís climbed the steps towards its top slowly, her feet feeling unusually heavy. There was a block on top of it and a heavy, ornate axe leaned against it. It was dusty, but showed now sign of rust or damage. It was of fine craftsmanship, but unadorned with gold or jewels, so the dragon had shown no interest in this large weapon. Its edge was sharp, even after all of these years. There were deep cuts in the marble indicating where it had struck in the past. Some dark stains were marring the stone. The henchman’s axe. Judgement and execution has always been close together in Dwarven society. There was no cause to linger once a verdict had been announced. Many a hand had been amputated here, other body parts as well, but from all that Dís had heard and read about the city of Erebor, more often than not what had been severed here had been heads.

This was where Dwalin would die.

She had not thought of him often, had been too caught up in her grief and the work. But now she could see him here, the proud warrior bowed at last. This was where his blood would flood from his body to leave a puddle of thick, shiny liquid, adding to the dark stains. The thought of it made the bile rise in her throat. She had seen beheadings, sometimes, when she could not avoid it. They were gruesome displays of violence. Thorin had not been fond of them either, although he would never admit to that. He was no supporter of needless violence, even though he was a warrior through and through. He justified the beheadings as a necessity, the only way to keep Dwarves in line, to signal to the unsavoury element of every society that they would ultimately pay for their crimes with their lives. There were deeds so thoroughly bad that a Dwarf should not be allowed to escape with his life, Thorin had argued. Deeds such as rape or murder. Thorin had been their leader and therefore the highest judge. As he had been the one to announce a verdict, he had seen it as necessary to carry it out as well. Seeing how that duty affected him, Dís had worried about him in the early days. After the first few years of his rule, he had hardly ever been the one to swing the henchman’s axe. This duty had been taken over, reluctantly, but rooted in his deep loyalty, by Dwalin.

At least it was a quick death.

A quick death. It had been his justification for the deed that earned him the death penalty in the first place. A quick death. The quick death that he had given Kíli, Kíli who did not deserve death, who should have lived for many more decades. No death should have touched him, quick or not, and certainly death should not have come at the hands of one he had trusted so much.

Dáin continued to talk about restorations, about cement and stonemasons, and other tedious things. Dís did not pay attention to his explanations.

Dwalin would die here.

She made her excuses, citing a headache. He looked surprised, but did not question her story. Lost in thought Dís returned to her house, a small, unobtrusive house in what probably had been a craftsmen’s quarter of the old cit. It had been assigned only to her while all of the others were sharing the few restored properties. Two guards were posted outside at all times, which Dís found ridiculous, but Dáin insisted on keeping her safe. With the recent incident in the treasure chamber, she should probably be more concerned about her safety as well. There was no treasure to be found here, but she knew all to well that no leader ever commanded absolute loyalty and there would in time be those who were discontent with her, who maybe thought a lonely dwarrowdam an easy target. She had not argued with Dáin about the matter. The guards were polite and discreet, nodding in greeting, but otherwise leaving her alone as she unlocked the door and stepped into the narrow corridor. She was safe here. Her house was small but neat and featured as much non-golden furniture as they had been able to find. Dís needed no treasure to adorn her chambers; she had spent decades in a tiny box of a bedroom that was decorated with only Kili's wooden figurines. There were just two rooms in this house, as it had no upper story. Despite not really having a headache, Dís was desperate for some rest and time to think. She went straight to her bedroom, which was towards the back. She lit the lamp and turned towards her bed.

“You!” she gasped, drawing back as far as the small room permitted.

She was not alone.

There was a Dwarf sitting in her chair. He had tilted it back on two legs and was resting his boots on her bed. He was quietly cleaning his fingernails with a short dagger, deliberately taking his time before he looked up at her with a smirk.

“How did you...” Dís said, but he cut her off with a wave of his dagger.

“Much more interesting,” he drawled. “Why did I...?”

He looked at her expectantly, a sardonic smile playing around his lips. Everything about him was a provocation, down to the last hair in his ridiculous star-shaped do. Dís had seriously questioned her brother’s wisdom in letting a well-known — and highly successful — thief join him on his quest, had argued fervently against this more than shady character despite his brothers’ impeccable reputation. Thorin had argued that his skills might come in useful, but they had both known that Thorin simply did not have a large enough following to be able to care too much about a bit of a criminal record when it came to selecting his companions. By all accounts, Nori had redeemed himself on the quest, but the fact remained that he was sitting in her windowless bedchamber behind a locked door that was constantly guarded by Dáin’s finest soldiers. And he was smirking, following her trail of thoughts with apparent interest. Thorin had always been a terrible judge of character.

The thief rose in one fluid, cat-like motion.

“Have a seat, milady,” he said and bowed with a flourish.

“I’d rather stand.”

“As you wish, milady,” he said. “Don’t mind if I do though. We have rather a lot to talk about.”

With that he flopped down on her bed. Before Dís could voice her indignation, he was sitting up again, grinning at her.

“How...” she started, but he interrupted her.

“Ah, ah, ah, I thought he had discussed that. Not ‘how’. ‘Why’ is the interesting question!”

Dís hated to give in to him, but there was a cocky little thief on her bed and she was determined to get him out of her bed as quickly as possible and ideally without the aid of those useless guards.

“Why?”

“Ahh, I’m glad you asked, milady!” Nori exclaimed and leaned back onto his hands taking up as much of the bed as possible before continuing. “Because he didn’t do it!”

For a moment they locked eyes. This Dwarf was infuriating! What did he want? Dís did not want to play along with his little games, but she really did want him out of her bed, her house, and ideally her life.

“Who didn’t do what?” she asked.

“Dwalin,” he said. “Dwalin did not rape you.”

She felt the blood rush to her head. There was a ringing in her ears and her breathing quickened. Dwalin. He was here because of Dwalin. Dwalin whom she had not seen for a week. Dwalin who was somewhere in the dungeons. Dwalin who was bound to be executed in the old high court. Dwalin.

“He... I never... I never said he...”

“Oh no, you never said a thing, milady. Very clever, very clever indeed. You just kept very quiet and let them all assume.” He was leaning forward now; his body tense, reminding Dís of a cat about to pounce on her prey. “Let them all assume, let them get so wound up in their righteous little outrage that they swallow your silly little lie. Let them cry about your so-called honour like it was spilled milk. Well, don’t count on outrage and crying with me, milady.”

Dís stood behind the chair now, her hands on the high backrest, keeping that piece of wood between them like it would do her any good.

“But the two of us, we are no fools,” Nori said. “You and me, we know that Dwalin would never rape you.”

Never. He would never even entertain the thought of forcing a kiss upon her. Never. And Nori knew.

“What is it to you?”

“Ah, a fair question,” Nori said, still smirking. “He’s my friend, you see. Those injuries, he got them when he saved Ori’s life. And I happen to like my little brother, you see. So I’d like to repay that debt. In fact, he saved my life as well. And I’m quite attached to my life. By Mahal, there’s probably not a single Dwarf in the company whose life he didn’t safe at least once. So just to make that clear — I’m not watching him die.”

He sat there looking smug.

“He has to answer for his crimes,” Dís said.

“Crimes he did not commit, nah. You are going to finally tell the truth and release him,” Nori said.

“I will do no such thing!”

“Ah, I doubt that, milady, I doubt that very much. You won’t watch him die for a nasty little lie you lived. You are going to tell the truth.”

He was so utterly sure of himself and his ridiculous rescue mission! Dwalin would die and there was nothing she could do about it. There was nothing she wanted to do about it. He deserved it. He deserved it. He had killed Kíli. He definitely deserved it! She had to keep telling herself that.

“If I told the truth, he would still be condemned to death!”

Why had she told him that? Why had she told a dirty little thief what nobody else knew? She should have kept quiet. She should have kept that to herself.

“Oh, but that is where you are wrong, milady,” he said, and he was leering now.

“You don’t know... his life is forfeit,” she said and caught herself wishing it was not true. She was desperately clutching the chair for support now.

“Ah, I don’t know... You really think I don’t know?” he asked and moved towards her on the bed, cat-like, dangerous. “You think that I don’t know that Dwalin slit Kíli’s throat?”

He knew. It was true. It was proof. He knew! _Dwalin slit KílI’s throat._ He knew. The thief knew. Dwalin slit Kíli’s throat. It was true.

Dís backed away until she hit the wall. Her heartbeat seemed to echo around the room. Everything was at once very far away and very close, sounds muffled and unnaturally clear at the same time.

“How...?” she finally croaked.

“Because I have eyes, milady. And I actually use them to look at my friends, you see. I look and I see when somebody is not himself, when somebody is suffering.”

She should have seen it. She had been friends with Dwalin for so long, she should have noticed long before he ever told her. She was Kíli’s mother. She should have known how he died.

“You look down your long nose at me because of who I am, but let me tell you, a life on the run teaches you when to trust somebody and when to look a bit more closely. Dwalin is honest, Dwalin is loyal.” He spat those descriptors as if they were insults. “He does not know how to keep a secret. Pathetic. One look and I found the cut on Kíli’s throat. Good work, by the way, precise, neat little cut, no orc weapon anywhere near that. He knows what he’s doing. Painless for Kíli, that’s for sure. Not so painless for Dwalin. But Kíli, yeah, quick, painless death.”

A quick, painless death. The quick death that awaited Dwalin. Nori had seen. Nori knew. But he did not seem to understand.

“Dwalin murdered Kíli.”

Her words hung between them for a while. Then Nori stretched luxuriously on the bed before he replied.

“Ah, now let’s examine that, milady. There are certain essential components to murder, you see. A Dwarf killed another Dwarf, I give you that, criterion fulfilled! There must be intent in the act of killing. For that I give evidence myself, perfect execution, definitely intentional! But the one I have trouble with is ‘malice’. I see no evidence of malice aforethought, you see. Finally, the killing must be unlawful to be classified as murder. Is it? Now there’s an interesting question... In the middle of a battle, is killing really unlawful? You think?”

Killing. Murder. Malice aforethought. She had trouble comprehending her thoughts; they flitted in and out of her brain so quickly. Killing Kíli. Cutting his throat. Dwalin cutting Kíli’s throat. Malice. So much malice.

“He was his cousin, he loved him. It wasn’t the battle. It wasn’t military at all.”

“Ah yes, indeed, milady. No military necessity. The battle was won, and at any rate, they were fighting on the same side. No need to kill Kíli, no objective.”

“But he did!”

“Indeed, he did... but why? Why do you think he did that?”

“He killed my son!”

“Because he showed compassion; because he cared more about Kíli than about himself. The last resort, the only way out of a desperate situation, the only means available in this situation to end great suffering. Malice aforethought? Unlawful? Hammers and coal, I think not!”

Her head felt fit to burst. She did not answer, still desperately clutching the chair in front of her. It was her last defence against Nori and the words he spoke. He watched her for a while, watched her writhe and wrestle. He was just as smug as before.

“You should thank him for what he did,” he suggested.

“How dare you??” she roared.

“I dare because I have to,” he said quietly. “Somebody has to tell you the truth, milady. I already told you that Dwalin isn’t going to die on my watch. I intend to keep my word with your consent or without it. Without his consent for all it matters.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Threatening,” he said and actually had the audacity to laugh. “Oh no, milady, threatening is very different.”

In the blink of an eye, he had gotten up, and turned her slightly. Next thing she knew, Dís felt a dagger prick the skin above her kidney, pressure just shy of actually piercing her skin. A second knife was pressed to her throat.

“That would be threatening.”

Just as quickly, the knives had disappeared and Nori was back on the bed, stretching his long arms.

“Threatening is very different, you see,” he said. “I’m just giving you a choice. No execution for Dwalin. You just need to decide if you are going to release him or if I'm going to do that.”

Dís was flabbergasted. He dared to pull knives on her in her own home. He dared to tell her what to do. She would not be treated like that!

“How dare you tell me to release him! Kíli should have lived! How dare you put Dwalin’s life above my son’s! Kíli would be here now if it wasn’t for Dwalin — he’d be King under the Mountain!”

“Would he now?” Nori asked and lay back on the bed, crossing his arms behind his head. “Let me tell you a story, milady. A tale of Erebor as it might have been without Dwalin... A tale of Kíli, King under the Mountain. Imagine Dwalin had spared his life, had let him live. Imagine you arrived here to find the gate barred, to be whisked away quickly through a side passage, so the other party doesn’t catch you. There are few who stick with Kíli and many more who say that a crippled king would spell disaster and ruin for Erebor once more. You arrived in the middle of a civil war, two groups fighting for the right to rule this mountain. You want to see Kíli and oh how you get to see your precious little boy. Shitting himself again and unable to eat on his own. Óin says it’s unnatural that he lives, but the Elves keep him alive and sedated since the battle. Tell them to wake him because you want to talk to your baby. They do it in the end and he wakes and then he screams. Can you imagine it? The pain from a crushed spine, the knowledge he will never walk again, and worst of all he knows he can’t get his Fíli back. Can you hear him beg for his brother? No hope for him, but the healers can keep him sedated, can keep him alive. A fine king. Rebellion, warfare, those big pleading eyes on you. So what do you do, eh? What do you do now?”

She could see it and she could hear it. She could see Kíli’s eyes, widened in agony that he could neither escape nor express properly. She could hear Kíli cry for his brother, barely lucid but determined to get to him, to be whole again. She knew her mind was playing tricks, but she also knew he was there, that this version of events could have happened, knew that this story was true, or could have been if it had not been for Dwalin.

What do you do?

No hope.

What do you do now?

The last resort, the only way out of a desperate situation, the only means available in this situation to end great suffering.

Help your child, save him, make it all better. Make him all better. End his suffering. But how could she? Even if he was begging for it, even if he was screaming in pain, even if she knew there was no hope — how could she? Why would Mahal permit this? Why would he unmake one of his children? Mahal was never merciful, but he was rarely as cruel as he had been with Kíli. Kíli was so innocent. His eyes on her, so expressive, so full of pain. He did not deserve this! Nobody deserved this, but least of all Kíli. She loved Kíli, her baby, her precious sunshine, the only one she had left. His eyes were haunting her. She loved him. She could not possibly do anything to harm him. She could not smother him in his sleep, or give him herbs that would kill him. She would not be able to live with herself. Withdrawing something that he needed, something that kept him alive. Not actively doing anything... maybe that... food, water or medicine. They all kept him alive, a lack of one of them could kill him. Kill Kíli. In her head it was starting to make sense. The scenario was too terrible, the image of her lively son screaming and unable to move a muscle... staring at her wide-eyed. The realisation hit her that she loved Kíli too much to let him live in such agony. To love him in these circumstances was to wish him death.

Amidst much pain and fear, but also with great joy she had helped him into the world. He had been a frail infant, joining this life many weeks too early. Now he was a frail king, leaving this life many decades too early, and it fell to her to help him depart from the world. There was no joy in the task, only fear and pain.


	21. Chapter 21

“Oi, cave troll! Wake up you big lump.”

Dwalin had always woke with a start, had jumped up and drawn his weapons as soon as he sensed an intruder. He did not have to do that any more. He just lay on his narrow cot, listening to the voice in the dim light of the dungeon. It did not matter. He had had no weapons since Mirkwood, and he had had no interest in protecting his life for far longer. Lord Elrond had told him that he was to outlive most everyone around him. Dwalin was glad that the Elf had been wrong. His life was forfeit. Whether he died by the henchman’s axe or an assassin’s dagger made little difference.

There was a metallic jingling, then an appreciative smack of lips.

“Ya dancer,” the intruder muttered. Dwalin finally opened his eyes and was surprised to find that the door was open and a Dwarf stood inside his cell. Not just any Dwarf either.

“Nori?”

“Ah, you miss me then?” his brother in arms asked with his characteristic smirk.

“What are you... why are you here?”

“To spring you out of jail, mate. Thought you might get a bit bored down here.”

No. He could not. He could not even think about that. His death had come so close, so easy to achieve now. Dwalin sat up, his heavy chains clanging as they dropped to the ground. Nori shushed him and listened intently for a while.

“Alright,” he finally said, when nothing stirred. “Slowly now. Let me have a look at those locks. Need to get you out of here.”

Dwalin withdrew his bound hands from Nori’s grasp and backed away from him.

“Leave me be,” he said. “I’m a prisoner on Dís’ orders.”

“Yes, and I’m here to free you. Come on, we’ll talk later. Your trust flatters me, but I didn’t get rid of those guards for the next week. Get a move on.”

Dwalin was not moving. He was not going anywhere.

“Where would I even go?” he asked.

“My brother has a pony with supplies and weapons waiting for you. Ride south and go back to Dunland. Join a trade caravan as a guard; find a forge that’ll take you on. It’s not like anybody would be reluctant to hire you. I’ll find you in a few years when the dust here has settled a bit and we’ll get you back to Erebor.”

That was a lot of information to take in. A whole new life, a life without Thorin and Dís, without Fíli and Kíli. A life without duty, a life without shame. It could not be, he quickly decided. He might have encouraged another in the same situation, but such dreams were not for him. He had a life here, however short it might be, and he would not abandon it. It would cause those he cared for even more hurt. Balin would be even more ashamed to have a fugitive for a brother, and Dís... Dís needed closure. If she yearned for his death, it was all he could do to give it to her. He had to admit he did not mind, but he did not want to explain that to Nori.

“You dragged Ori into this?” he asked instead.

“Ori dragged me into this, man. Was Ori that got himself nearly killed before you got in the way,” Nori said. “You saved my brother’s life, I’m saving yours. Simple as that.”

They had worked on different sides of the law for such a long time that it was strange to see Nori express concern for him.

“I appreciate it,” Dwalin said. “But leave me be, it’s better that way.”

Nori looked at him strangely. It was better that way. He was grateful for an excuse to quietly slip away to Mandos' Halls and to be with Thorin again. He was so tired of the endless fight that was his life.

“You’re a cockwomble, Dwalin, you’re coming with me.”

Dwalin smiled at the half-hearted insult. He knew he was an idiot, had been told so more than often enough and had been shown his intellectual limitations even more frequently. But just this once he was sure that what he was saying and doing was right. He would bear the just punishment for his deeds and meet his maker with his head held high.

“Give Ori my regards, he’s a good lad and I’m glad I was able to help him.”

Him and no other. He had lost his parents, he had lost his kings, he had lost his princes, and finally he had even lost his princess. He was destined to bring death and to guard their graves. It was the story of his life and he was glad that it had finally come to a close. He would not jeopardise Dís’ wellbeing just for a few more decades of this.

“If you refuse, I can always drug you and get you out of here in a wheelbarrow,” Nori threatened.

Dwalin growled low in his throat and lunged forwards. Nori quickly danced out of his reach until Dwalin was straining against the chains that did not allow him to stray far from the ring in the wall. There was the glint of a dagger in the torchlight.

“Aye, we both know that you could snap my neck one-handed,” Nori said, sounding almost bored, flicking the dagger between high into the air. “And we both know that I could serve you your own fingers for a midnight snack. Let’s cut out the games, shall we?”

They both glared at each other for a while. No matter how resigned Dwalin was to his fate, he did not take kindly to being threatened by a former criminal, even though said criminal had now become a dear friend.

“I have to pay for my crimes. You know what I stand accused of,” Dwalin said, hoping that the shock of the allegation would dull Nori’s sharp mind. Even among criminals there was no sympathy for a rapist, such people were often brutally killed by fellow prisoners who did not deem them worthy of breathing the same air. Dwalin had always found it hard to disagree with that.

“Ah, shut it,” Nori drawled. “I don’t know how long it’s been since you had your prick in a dwarrowdam or a dwarf or whoever else you prefer, but I do know you’ve never fucked anyone who wasn’t willing. I’ve seen rapists. You can pretend all you want, you’re not one of them.”

“But Dís...”

“Is letting everyone believe a load of dragon dung because she’s a coward.”

“How dare you,” Dwalin roared. He would not let Nori insult Dís.

“Oh, cut out the big scary warrior pish, I haven’t got forever,” Nori said dismissively. “Let’s make this short. You showed Kíli battlefield mercy and cut his throat. I don’t care. Dís is being a rock-brain about it.”

He knew. He said he did not care. He knew and he was still here, was still trying to free him. He did not deserve this. Was it mercy? Was it cruelty? Dwalin knew he did not deserve to walk free, and he hoped he did not deserve to live for many long years with the terrible guilt that haunted him.

“How do you know?”

“I saw his injuries. I’m no healer, but looked to me like he would have died without your little cut, just more slowly and in agony. You did well.”

“How can you say that?”

He was a murderer and Nori praised him for it, made it sound like it was something to be proud of.

Nori came very close to him, raised himself onto his toes and snarled straight into Dwalin’s face.

“I can say that because I have been there.”

Dwalin did not believe him.

“You...? What...?”

“You think I was going to let those goblins have their fun with Ori? He would have been dead before they could lay a finger on him,” Nori growled. “Though personally, I prefer a dagger between the ribs, less of a mess and even faster if you know how to hit the heart just right,” he said and turned on his heel.

Nori? Nori had some questionable notions of right and wrong, but he was not _that_. He was no kinslayer. _The_ _most difficult act of them all is to let those we care for pass._ Elrond had let his wife pass. Nori would have let Ori pass. Dwalin had let Kíli pass. Was everyone a kinslayer if it came to it?

“You would have killed your own brother?” Dwalin asked of Nori’s back.

“You killed the one who was like a sister-son to you,” Nori said, his voice sounding pressed. “It’s a cruel world if you don’t have the luxury of watching it pass by from your armchair.” He turned around again and his glance was hard. “You did the right thing. Let me take you out of here.”

Dwalin smiled. He had found such friends, such companionship. It had not all been in vain. Nevertheless, his voice was firm when he replied. He had made up his mind all the way back in Mirkwood. He regretted his deeds but was not ashamed of them. He would serve those who were left to him to the best of his ability, face his punishment and hopefully regain is goodness in the Halls of Mandos.

“Thank you, Nori, but go on without me,” he said. “My time has come. My duty is calling and I shall not abandon my post now.”

 

*****

 

“Oi, Mister Oliphaunt. Make yourself presentable, you got a visitor.”

Nori’s greeting was as rude as ever as he poked his head through the bars on the door. Dwalin smiled. There was precious little to do down here in the perpetual semi-darkness of the dungeons. Guards brought him food and drink twice a day, but they were well-trained and did not speak to him. A warrior’s life consisted of much waiting and idleness, so Dwalin did not complain, but Nori’s visits were certainly welcome. But another visitor? He longed to see his brother once more, but Balin had denounced him. He would not come again. Ori had apparently asked to see him, but Nori was unwilling to bring his little brother down here.

A second figure stepped out of the shadows into the light of the solitary torch.

“Dwalin...”

Dís. Dwalin’s chest constricted painfully. Dís was here. Her voice sounded small, hesitant, almost insecure. He barely noticed Nori slinking back into the corridor. Dís stood in front of his cell. She looked well, wearing a simple, but beautiful dress of some dark fabric. She displayed no adornment except for Thorin’s tarnished old hair clasps on the braids she wore in his memory. She was looking at the floor as she stood there, forlorn in a place she should never have any reason to visit. His Queen.

His chains shifted noisily as he stood and walked towards her. She looked up, her eyes wide.

“They chained you,” she said, voice not much more than a breath.

“It’s nothing,” Dwalin said. He was in no state to stand before her, but he would make good use of this precious moment nonetheless. “How are you, Dís?”

Her eyes held so much hurt.

“Erebor is slowly regaining some of its beauty,” she replied. “More houses are restored every day and our defences are sound. I’m hopeful that we will have catalogued all of the treasure by the end of the summer. We are exploring the mines though no actual work is taking place there so far, structural integrity needs to be tested first...”

Dwalin just listened to her voice. Life was returning to Erebor, it seemed, but more importantly, life was returning to Dís. She had found a purpose again and was passionate about the restoration.

With a remark about the dreadful state of the main aqueduct, Dís concluded her report. She chewed her lower lip, a nervous habit he remembered from their youth.

“I’m glad Erebor is being rebuilt,” he said and he meant it. It was good to see some part of Thorin’s dream come true. “But how are you, Dís?”

She shrugged and was silent. Dwalin would have liked to reach out to provide her some comfort, but the chains kept him several feet away from the door for the safety of the guards and any visitors. It was better that way.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” he said. She was showing him such mercy. He drank in the sight of her. His last thought would be of her, his last hope the one that she might one day find some level of comfort again, that his death would provide her much-needed closure.

“I’m sorry,” she said, the words bursting out of her.

“I’m sorry too, for what I have done to you,” he said. He was sorry. He had come to the conclusion that what he had done for Kíli had been right, an act of love and mercy. It had taken him many lonely days in the darkness to accept that. He would never be willing to accept what he had done to Dís.

“No!” Dís interrupted him sharply. “You haven’t. I mean... I want to... I’m going to pardon you, you are free, you can go.” She looked at him almost pleadingly. “I don’t want you to die.”

Oh sweet Dís.

He shook his head and smiled.

“No Dís,” he said gently and strained against his bonds, wishing he could be closer to her. “I need to bear the punishment for my crime.”

“You never hurt me,” she said fervently although they both knew it was a lie. “You would never rape me, you are not that kind of Dwarf. I’ll tell them that I lied and they’ll release you!”

“They would question what had happened and search for an explanation. There has to be punishment and I am happy to face it.”

“I can explain what really happened, I can pardon you.”

“No, Dís,” Dwalin said firmly. “They would never accept a murderer back into society, and rightly so. Let Balin at least believe that I atoned for my sins. It will give him some comfort. Most importantly, I would not have you go through the pain of retelling it all. I regret that I have burdened you with that knowledge. That weight was mine alone to bear. Grieve in peace, Dís, without dragging up those horrible images again, without having to listen to our people gossip about Kíli’s end.”

He would not have her suffer needlessly. He would not expose her to the renewed mental torment, nor the mutters and the pity of the inhabitants of Erebor.

“I have lived long enough with a lie, with the pretence of being an honourable warrior, time has come for me to stand up for what I have done,” he explained.

“But they’ll kill you!” Dís shouted, prompting an angry hiss from Nori who was keeping an eye on the guardroom.

Dwalin nodded and smiled. “And rightly so.”

He was tired of this life, this constant fight and torture. His duty here was almost done, and he was eager to receive his next posting to the Halls of Mandos. Thorin was waiting for him there and he yearned for his company.

For several minutes they stood in silence. For once, Nori did not rush him. Dwalin did not want to know what he had done to make this visit possible.

“Did he really ask you to...?”

“Aye, though if it was his true desire or merely the pain speaking, I cannot rightly say,” Dwalin admitted. “I did what I judged was best, but I cannot be sure. None but Mahal should grant such a wish.”

“He might have died anyways...” Dís said. She was now clutching the iron bars for support, the torture of talking about her son’s death clearly taking its toll.

“Or he might have lived. It is beyond any Dwarf to make such decisions.”

“But you acted in good faith!”

“I love Kíli and wanted to spare him any more pain.”

“I... I understand your decision,” Dís said. “I cannot forget or forgive what you have done, but I think I can accept it.”

Dwalin was touched by this. She tried so hard to make sense of what was beyond anyone’s comprehension. She tried so hard to see the good in even the vilest decision.

“Do not torture yourself, I do not ask your forgiveness, Dís,” he said. “There is no excuse for what I have done.”

“But he told you to... and he was your prince.”

“I believed him to be my king at the time, not knowing that Thorin yet lived,” Dwalin said. “But nay, Dís, it was no order that Kíli spoke and I did not take it as such. I acted of my own free will. And of my own free I now decide to face a trial. It does not matter what the indictment is. Leave it at rape, it makes no difference to me. You and I both know the truth; that is all that matters. Let them believe it was rape, that is easier now, and the punishment remains the same.”

“It doesn’t.”

Both Dís and Dwalin were flabbergasted at Nori’s words.

“Rape and murder both carry the death penalty,” Dwalin said.

Nori stepped out of the shadows with none of his usual swagger, his voice calm and serious.

“You did not murder Kíli, you showed him battlefield mercy.”

“It makes no difference.”

“It does. Ori researched the matter —“

“Ori? How does he...?”

“Because he’s a smart lad and won’t watch you throw your life away either.”

“It’s mine to throw away if I wish. I’m tired of everybody making decisions for me.”

“Listen to him, Dwalin,” Dís interjected.

“Fair enough,” Nori said. “But hear me out. Ori went back through the court records. There’s cases throughout history, not as many as you might think, but Ori reckons that’s because they were rarely reported. Fact is, mercy killings have always been part of warfare; Dwarves have stood accused of killing their wounded comrades for centuries. Not a single one has ever been executed for it.”

“But it is murder. How...?”

“The judges do not see it that way,” Nori said and produced a piece of parchment from one of his many pockets. He stepped closer to the torch to be able to read it.

“From a ruling by Thráin I _‘in such circumstances, every righteous Dwarf would have felt compelled to end the misery’,_ a general’s report from Óin’s time _‘Every day that he can live will be a howling torture... we ought to put him out of his misery’,_ and Náin II judged _‘every warrior, every Dwarf unfortunate enough to find himself in such a position should be commended, not punished, for his bravery, his willingness to put a comrade’s release from suffering above the peace of his own soul’...”_

Dwalin was listening, but he could not believe it. He heard the words, but they did not seem to reach his brain. There were others like him, others who had made that decision and faced the consequences. And they had not been condemned. Nobody had seen it fit to grant them release from their suffering.

“And one last one, about the deed of another soldier who was released _‘If that were me or if that Dwarf were my friend, an old and dear friend, Mahal knows this is what I would want to happen’_ , that one was by Thorin I,” Nori concluded.[1]

Thorin. Thorin saying he would want this to happen. Not his Thorin of course, Thorin I had been dead for more than 600 years, but from so far beyond the grave he still seemed to be endorsing Dwalin’s deeds.

“There is a chance,” Dís said and he heard the tears in her voice. “You can face your punishment and live, Dwalin.”

He was leaning forward as far as he could now, his shoulders painfully pulled back by the sturdy chains. The chance, as Dís called it, was a heavy weight. He had clung onto his life for so many years now, through battles and hardship, through injury and illness, and all just to witness so much death as those he loved went to the halls of their forefathers. He had come to terms with his own death, indeed he had welcomed it. For a brief moment, with Estel, he had seen a light, a purpose in his life, but he had to acknowledge that the lad would live and die the same without his interference.

“Please Dwalin,” Dís whispered. When he looked up he could see her holding out her hand to him. “I do not want to lose you. Let me tell them the truth.”

Whatever shrivelled remnant of a heart he still had seemed to shatter at her words. Despite all of it, she wanted him to live. She did not understand that there was no mercy in it for him. He shook his head slowly.

“I do not want you to go through that pain.”

“It would be much greater pain to see you die. I have no family left, Dwalin. Do not take my friend from me. There is no guarantee that you will be acquitted, but please do not die for my lie. Will you allow me to tell the truth?”

In the end he nodded his head. He owed her a life. It might as well be his own. His duty here had not ended yet, not while one still remained who needed him, one whose cheeks were tear-stained as she reached through the metal bars.

“Nori,” Dwalin said. “Could you open the door, please?

Nori flashed her a toothy grin, then beckoned Dís towards the opposite wall.

“Some privacy, milady. Trade secrets, you see,” he said. Dís looked astonished, but Dwalin nodded at her. Nori was a craftsman like any other, and he did not appreciate onlookers when he went about his business.

In a heartbeat the lock clicked, Nori stepped back, slid his tools back into his sleeves, and opened the door for Dís with a low bow. She stepped into the cell, but stood just out of reach, no matter how much Dwalin strained. Eventually, she stretched out her hand and he was able to touch her fingers. It was not much of a connection, but it was enough.

“I’m tired, Dwalin,” she said. “I’m tired and I’m scared. I keep going on, every day I keep going, but I cannot see where this path leads me and I cannot find it in myself to care.”

“Give yourself time,” he said. “Give yourself the space to grieve.”

“I can’t,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m Queen under the Mountain. I have a duty to fulfil, a duty to my people, and most importantly to my sons. I need to make sure their legacy lives on!”

“You were always their queen, you needed no crown or jewels for that. Nobody doubts your ability, Dís. Fíli and Kíli loved you for who you are, and they always will. They would want you to be content and to take care of yourself.”

 

******

 

Dwalin was the last one to exit the courtroom. Dís watched him flex his arms and rub his wrists, finally free of the shackles he had worn for so long. He seemed barely aware of his surroundings; he flinched slightly when he noticed her waiting for him. She smiled at him and he at her, but his eyes remained sad and so did hers.

“They released me,” Dwalin said. Dís was not sure if she heard regret in his tone or bewilderment. Maybe it was just tiredness. They were both so tired.

“I know,” she said.

“They... it was almost like they... like they understood.”

“How could they not,” Dís said. She put a hand on his shoulder very gently, but could still feel him tense. “You are a good Dwarf, Dwalin. Everybody can see that you acted out of loyalty and love. They might not condone your deeds, but they all understand.”

“But I murd—”

“None of that now. You were cleared of that accusation, don’t let a harsher judge sit in your heart.”

The look he gave her spoke of disbelief. As far as Dwalin was concerned, this judge would forever be a part of him.

“I forgive you,” she said. Back when they had spoken in the dungeons she had not been sure she would ever be able to say these words and mean them, but she did not hesitate now. He had acted out of love and loyalty. She forgave him.

Dwalin shielded his eyes with his hand and for several minutes only his heavy breathing could be heard in the deserted corridor as he struggled to master his emotions. Dís’ hand was still on his shoulder, slowly rubbing circles and gently squeezing. She did not speak.

“I am barred from all military activity for life,” Dwalin finally said with a sigh.

“Do you regret that?”

“Nay,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, biting his lower lip. “It’s just... I don’t know what else to do now. All my life I’ve... ever since Azanulbizar I’ve been nothing but...” He waved his hand dismissively. “Dwalin the warrior, the guard, the weapons master, the captain, the brute, the killer...”

“Shhh,” Dís interrupted. “Not that.”

“I’m tired of it. I’m tired of fighting,” Dwalin said. It was such a momentous admission for one of his standing. He was skilled; he was admired and feared, his renown resting on his strength, on his talent with various weapons, on his loyalty and ability as a soldier.

“Don’t fight. Just be with me.”

“Nay, Dís... We spoke about that... I... I care for you, but I can’t... not like that, Dís, I’m sorry.”

She shuddered when she remembered how she had confronted him in Bree and then later in Rivendell. She had been selfish and blind.

“Not like that,” she said. She swallowed heavily before continuing. “I resigned my right to the crown this morning.”

If he was surprised, he did not show it. He merely rested a hand on her shoulder. Somehow that simple gesture gave her strength.

“I had lost myself,” she said. “In my grief I thought that I had to make it worth it somehow, to make sure that I held on to Erebor for them... so it wasn’t all in vain. But no child is ever going to replace Fíli and Kíli. I know that now. Nothing is ever going to make up for their loss and I need to learn to live with that.” In her head she had practiced these words so often, but she still had to choke back tears now. “I will continue to do my best for Erebor and her people, but I... I decided to leave the burden of the kingship to Dáin.”

“I’m glad of it,” Dwalin said. He did not accuse her, did not point out how cruel she had been, how little power seemed to suit her, how she had succumbed to a version of her brother’s madness. Dís was glad of it. She too had a magistrate sitting in her own heart. “Dáin is a good Dwarf. He’s not Thorin, but with you as his advisor, he’ll make a fine king.”

“I’m glad he’s not Thorin,” Dís admitted. Dwalin had always been loyal to Thorin, much more so than she had, but he had also seen him at his lowest and Dís knew that he would understand. “Dáin is not influenced by the gold and he does not hold the same strong grudges Thorin did. He is a wise ruler and a strong leader. Young Thorin is the one who worries me.”

“He is not a bad lad. With a bit of guidance...”

“I was thinking about teaching him,” Dís said. Realizing that her sons were irreplaceable did not mean that she had given up on ensuring that Erebor was in safe hands.

“You think it counts as military activity if I knock him around the training yard a bit?”

She looked up at him and saw a real smile on his face, the first one she had seen in as long as she could remember.

“You would join me?”

“I have always liked the young ones,” he said with a shrug. It was no secret that Dwalin loved children. He had been like another uncle to her sons and sometimes Dís wondered about what could have been, about the Dwarf Dwalin could have been if he had been granted the blessing of fatherhood. “I would not want to see another boy suffer because of his heritage.”

Suffer like Thorin and Frerin, like Fíli and Kíli. Dís was crying again. So many had given their lives for this mountain, for their heritage. For what? Dís had no answer. What had happened today felt right. She had taken the weight of the crown off of her own head; Dwalin had stood up for his deeds and beliefs and received a just sentence. But would it ever be enough? Would she ever be worthy of her sons’ sacrifice? How was she to go on in this broken world?

She held out her palm to Dwalin. On it was the small wooden dog Kíli had made so many years ago. Dwalin stared at it in astonishment, then carefully reached for it, brushing his large thumb over the back of the little figurine.

“I thought I had lost it,” he said, voice heavy.

They had taken it off him in Mirkwood, had taken everything off him. Dís had not seen how it had happened, but she had seen what Hrungnir had done to him before and doubted that it had been a pleasant process. He had held on to a broken toy for all of these weeks, just like he had held on to her.

Dwalin continued to very gently stroke the little dog’s back. It was no longer in two pieces, but there was still a visible line where the wood had split.

“It’ll never be the same,” he said.

“It won’t be the same,” she confirmed. “But there is healing.”

He closed his hand around the dog and her fingers.

“Lives are not that easily glued back together.”

“Nay, not lives... but maybe we can try with Erebor... Dáin will rebuild the mountain, but maybe we can do something for the people. Just... something... like they would have...” Dís said, well aware that her voice was wavering.

“Kíli would have made them smile, and Fíli would have taken care of them,” Dwalin said, voice so tender that nobody would have guessed that he had spent all of his days as a fearsome warrior.

“We have to make Erebor a just and welcoming place, to make sure that the high price they paid for its reclamation was not entirely in vain.”

“No, Dís,” Dwalin said, leaning his forehead against hers. “You do not need to do anything to be worthy of Fíli and Kíli. Their deaths were no sacrifice.”

 

 

[1]All quotes are adapted from actual military sources and represent, almost verbatim, the views of real people who have faced such decisions. Mercy killings in the military have been rarely reported (certainly much less than suicide), but there is evidence that they occurred throughout history and as part of my research for this fic, I have read accounts of battlefield mercy killings in most modern wars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And thus we reach the end of ‘No Sacrifice’. As promised, there was a happy end... of sorts. A big ‘Thank you’ to everyone who has read it all! It has taken me eleven months to the day to get through these 21 chapters. This is the first fanfic I ever wrote and it has expanded slightly beyond the one shot it was initially supposed to be. Thank you for your support, your encouragement and your critique. I’m naught but a bumbling beginner in the fanfic world, and every review is much appreciated.
> 
> This project is very dear to me for two reasons. 1. It has provided me with a constant source of joy in a turbulent year full of changes, including a new country, a new job, a new house, and other less enjoyable challenges. 2. It has also given me a chance to write about some topics that are important to me and not commonly present in (fan)fiction. Friends have teasingly called this fic ‘Pericula’s ethics essay’, but I hope I managed to make it somewhat entertaining and enjoyable as well.
> 
> It’s not all over after ‘No Sacrifice’. In fact, I currently have notes and partially written scenes for no less than five fics, as well as some more ‘Dwarfling Love’ chapters. With a bit of distance, I’m also going to thoroughly edit ‘No Sacrifice’ as I noticed that my dyslexia has left the one or the other trace, and I also generally improved as a writer. Once I have played around a bit with shorter stories, it’s on to bigger and better things, namely a coming-of-age epic set during the fell winter. Hope to read you again soon. Even if you happen to be reading this long after publication, please send me a few lines!


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